


Rash Actions

by blanketed_in_stars



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pre-Curse of the Black Pearl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 17:28:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 68,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6338491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blanketed_in_stars/pseuds/blanketed_in_stars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Turner is not a military man, he is not a soldier. He is a blacksmith. There was a time when James Norrington didn't care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Salute

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a dumb what-if with [Audrey](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Palebluedot/pseuds/Palebluedot), but really it's all my fault.
> 
> I know nothing about blacksmithing or the British military except what I'm able to find on the internet, so any glaring errors are certainly mine and I take credit for all of 'em.
> 
> Updates monthly.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Salute: a gesture of respect performed with the blade at start or end of a fencing match.

Will doesn’t remember the first time he looked at James and saw him—saw _James,_ not the lieutenant with the sharp uniform. It must have been early, he thinks, to blend so seamlessly with all the other ways he was growing up. And it wasn’t as if they were near each other often. He was, after all, only a blacksmith’s apprentice.

He can ignore it, mostly, this idiotic attraction that seems specifically designed to undo his already-precarious standing as a drunkard’s apprentice with no name or family to speak of. He contents himself with going to all the parades and spending his free hours down at the docks, feigning an interest in ships. If he’s lucky, he catches a glimpse of the blue coat, the cornered hat. Once—Will still reminds himself of this on bad days—James walked within three feet of him, even glanced in his direction. And then quickly away again, but it had been a glorious moment.

It’s a quiet kind of longing. He pays it no mind, and it twines silently into the fabric of himself: he is William Turner, orphan, smith, childhood friend of the governor’s daughter, secret admirer of the youngest lieutenant in Port Royal. There’s no point in trying to cut out what amounts to an internal organ.

But he remembers with perfect clarity the first time James saw _him._

 

**1735**

 

The smell of gunpowder from the barracks is ever so faint over the charcoal smoke, but Will looks up and there he is, that not-quite-a-man, halfway through the door, one hand still on the latch, and one foot in midair.

“What?” Will rasps, trying not to cough on the rawness of his throat. He’s tired enough from the day’s work that an elevated pulse is all the excitement he can muster.

James pulls himself together remarkably quickly, Will thinks. He comes forward in a walk that looks as though it belongs on the deck of a ship with the wind blowing the sails out wide. Several paces from Will, he stops and holds out a sheathed sword.

Will looks from it to James’s face. There’s a funny expression there, but Will only says, “What do you want me to do with that?” He wants to kick himself. “Sir?”

“Oh,” James says, coloring so brilliantly that he looks like the sunset beyond the shuttered windows. “Oh, it’s—it’s the hilt, it’s bent.” He displays the warped cross-guard. “It needs to be done by next Tuesday,” James says, with a valiant effort to regain his composure once again. “Double the pay if it’s done by Friday.”

“By Friday?” Will repeats, and reaches out to take the sword. Their fingers brush. James drops the blade and kneels quickly to retrieve it. Will takes the sword before he gives himself away and turns, holding it closer to the fire for light.

“Do you have time?” James asks. He’s looking at the racks that line the shop, full of swords, knives, and axes in various stages of completion.

Having wrestled his expression back into submission, Will turns back. He smiles, or he tries to—the proximity is starting to get to him. “Of course,” he says. “Anything for a devoted Lieutenant such as yourself.” He briefly considers running himself through with the blade he’s still holding.

James flushes bright red again. “It belongs to Admiral Gillan,” he says stiffly.

It’s not too late to stab himself, but Will has a feeling it would only make his last moments more awkward than what’s already happening. He casts about frantically for a way to salvage the situation. “Devoted messenger, I meant,” he says. That’s almost worse. He bows to keep himself from saying something he’ll truly regret. “Come back on Friday, and it’ll be good as new.”

James shakes his hand with a firm grip. He teeters again for a moment on the threshold, and then he’s gone.

By Friday at dawn, Will has gone over the hilt as if the sword belonged to the king himself. He’s nervous for reasons that don’t entirely make sense—it’s only a sword, and he’s only passing it on. He’s even getting paid double, which is no small matter in his situation. But his hands feel clammy from the moment he wakes.

He starts out by etching insignia on a dagger; it doesn’t have to be done for several days, but anything more complicated will probably cause him to lose a hand. It’s good work, and it demands attention to detail, so he can clear his head somewhat.

“Turner.”

The voice is immediately familiar, and Will clenches his hand around his chisel, somehow managing not to ruin his work. He turns and is unprepared for the sight of James bold against the pink Caribbean dawn. “Good morning,” he hears himself say.

James gives him a withering look. “‘Good’ and ‘morning’ are incompatible,” he says as he comes into the shop, but he doesn’t look truly upset.

He looks, Will thinks, as if he would rather be anywhere but here. “I have the admiral’s sword,” he says. He fetches it from the rack and displays it across his open palms, trying hard not to look like a schoolboy hoping for a good mark.

While he inspects it, James is silent. He fingers the hilt, runs his fingers along the curve of the quillon. “Excellent,” he murmurs, “quite—” and then looks up, lets his hand drop, and takes half a step back. Will slides the blade back into its sheath and hands it over while James takes a money pouch out of his pocket. “Double payment, as promised.”

From the heft of it, Will can tell it’s enough, but he looks inside because he feels he ought to. “Excellent,” he repeats. But it all seems like the end of a dream, even though they’ve exchanged less than a hundred words and James still doesn’t appear to know his first name. He watches him walk toward the door and go out. He stays standing in the middle of the shop, frozen, irrationally disappointed.

He’s still standing there thirty seconds later when James comes back. “This really is beautiful work,” he says, tapping the quillon with one finger. Then he pauses, looking rather at a loss, nods, flushes, and is gone again.

A month passes, during which Will does his best not to dwell on the unexpected entrance and exit of excitement in and out of his life. It bothers him how little success he has—it’s as if this flame, once little more than a spark, but now well and truly kindled, has been fanned to an inferno. He dreams of green eyes.

He’s angry, too. It’s not as if he doesn’t have enough to worry about without all of this, whatever it is. Brown drinks more and more these days, and although Will’s training is still incomplete, the blacksmith leaves the running of most business to him. It’s good practice, to be sure, and might even be gratifying if Brown ever recognizes how well things are going under Will’s watch—but it leaves no time for mooning over lieutenants who most certainly do not moon over him in return.

And then, as he’s stowing all his tools for the night, there comes a knock on the door. Surprised, Will goes to draw the bolt.

“Evening, Turner,” says the figure standing there, so thoroughly splattered with mud that his features are barely visible.

But Will would know that voice anywhere, loathe though he might be to admit it. “Lieutenant,” he says, staring. James’s uniform is covered in enough filth that he could be mistaken for one of the peasants fresh off the boats from England.

“Might I come in?” James asks, squinting through the darkness. His eyes are nothing more than glints, and when he speaks his teeth are stark against his dirty face.

Will mutters an apology and steps aside hastily so that James can enter at a lopsided gait. He shuts the door against the gale—there’s a storm, of course, _why_ did he stand there like a lackwit for so long—and the two of them stand there for an infinite moment, one dripping, the other awash in confusion. At last Will finds the sense to say, “What are you doing here?”

James takes off his hat and shakes it, dampening the floor. “We just made port,” he says, “the _Dauntless,_ I mean, we just docked.” He fishes in his pocket, pulls out a rain-drenched handkerchief, and wipes his face. It only smears the dirt around a little.

If anything, his words are more bewildering than his sudden manifestation. Will wordlessly hands James his own handkerchief. “You just made port?” he repeats. Looking more closely, he can see that beneath the dirt, the uniform is stiff with salt. And it explains the awkward walk: sea legs. He really has come directly from the docks. “And you came straight here?”

James blinks. His eyes vanish and reappear. “Yes.” He has marginally more success with the second cloth; it does seem as if he actually has skin under all the mud.

Will brings forth the pail of water kept on hand in case of fire and watches as James wrings both handkerchiefs in it. “Why?” he asks.

With the air of a man just realizing that his behavior is odd, James stops mid-wipe and looks at him. “I need my sword sharpened,” he says, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Something swells in Will’s chest, and he can’t decide whether he wants to laugh or punch the air. “Haven’t you got a whetstone?” he hears himself say.

James looks oddly sheepish. “I had one,” he admits, “but it flew overboard with a great deal of my gear. In the storm,” he adds, gesturing unnecessarily at the air to indicate the general din howling outside the smithy.

“That is a problem,” Will agrees, grinning broadly. He wishes he could make his face stop. “Have you got the sword, then?”

“Er—yes,” James says, and fumbles awkwardly at his belt while still hanging on to the two blackened handkerchiefs.

Will holds up one hand. “Don’t bother,” he says, “I was just about to leave. You’ll have to bring it back tomorrow.” He eyes the way James is still somewhat unsteady on his feet. “That is, if you can stay upright on dry land by then.”

James doesn’t look disappointed at having wasted time slogging through mud; on the contrary, he looks delighted. His response, however, is typically subdued. “Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Will replies earnestly. He notices that James is looking toward the door. “Is it bad out there?” he asks, knowing the answer, desperate for a few moments more. “You can sleep here, there’s straw and blankets enough for a bed if you don’t mind my master snoring—”

“Thank you,” James says again, more archly than before, as if he’s offended. “But I must get back to the crew; we still have business to attend to tonight.”

“Of course.” An odd sense of distance creeps into Will’s mind as, for the first time, he understands something of their separate spheres—he’s nothing but a lowly blacksmith’s apprentice, and James will surely rise quickly through the ranks of the navy. These meetings are chance and nothing more. Will swallows. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then, sir.” He bows, the door swings; when he looks up, he is alone.

The morning comes grey and wet. The rain is done, but the air still hangs heavy, a sign of more storms on the way. Brown remains unconscious all the while as Will opens the shop, which is good, because he’s so busy twisting around to check over his shoulder that he nearly kills himself twice and the ass three times with various bits of hot machinery as he starts up the fires.

James appears just as the sun is setting the clouds ablaze. Will isn’t surprised this time, with his head on a constant rotation, but he still pauses a moment to appreciate the fresh, mud-less man walking through the door. “Good morning,” he says before he can stop himself, and smiles to lessen his mistake.

James rolls his eyes, but makes no disparaging comment. “Here,” he says, “one sword, badly in need of a new edge.” He pulls it ringing from its sheath.

It rests evenly in Will’s hand. “Was your mission on board the _Dauntless_ successful?” he asks as he settles in at the wheel.

For a moment, James is silent. When he answers, he sounds surprised, as if he didn’t expect conversation. “I suppose so,” he says slowly. “We caught _Poseidon’s Pride_ and hanged her crew.” When Will looks around sharply, he explains, “Pirates.”

“Ah.” Will feels the familiar twinge of anger that accompanies the word, and with it, a slight chill at another reminder of the distance between them, less a gap and more of a gaping chasm. “I’ve witnessed the brutality of pirates,” he says, sliding the blade along the stone with more force than is necessary. “Good work.”

James is quiet again. “We lost two men,” he says at last. “Reeve and Markeley.” His voice is barely audible over the sound of the scraping sword.

It’s Will’s turn to stay silent, grateful to be able to feign concentration on his work. The hazy memory rises in his mind: blasting cannons, splintering wood, his own terrified screams. “I’m sorry,” he says after several seconds. When James doesn’t answer, Will ducks his head and keeps sharpening, pressing his lips together into a thin line.

At last the sword is done. He takes a scrap of hide worn soft and draws it gently along the edges of the blade so that it shines.

“I am sorry, too,” James says suddenly.

“Why?” Will asks.

“For what you’ve witnessed.” Will doesn’t respond. It’s common enough to have experienced pirates in one way or another; it hardly warrants this kind of sympathy, not when two men have died. He can’t think what to say. But James isn’t finished. “The wreck we pulled you from—I shall never forget it. It must haunt you day and night.”

Will opens his mouth to reply, but realizes he has nothing to say. He turns and reaches for a softer polishing rag. Then a hand comes to rest on his shoulder, startling him so badly that he slices his left thumb on the sword. Will swears but manages to keep his grip as he maneuvers carefully out from under James’s hand.

“My apologies,” James rushes as he sees the cut. He takes the sword and holds out his own handkerchief, which looks to be the same one from the night before, though considerably cleaner. “Here, bind it with this.”

His thoughts are so jumbled that Will does as he’s told, frowning, though the cut isn’t deep and looks much worse than it feels. “Did I bleed on your sword?” he asks, struggling to tie a knot one-handed.

“No, it’s clean.” After a moment, James sheathes the blade. “Let me,” he orders. Before Will has a chance to look up and see what he intends, James has taken his hand in both of his and tied the knot so deftly that Will scarcely feels him do it.

He lets go immediately. “Thank you,” Will says, and sees without surprise that James is red in the face again. It seems to be something of a pattern.

James gives a half-shrug. “Think nothing of it,” he says. “It was my fault in the first place.” He holds Will’s gaze for a moment longer, then claps a hand to the hilt of his sword. “I thank you in return for a job well done.”

“I only sharpened it,” Will protests, feeling his own cheeks begin to warm, wishing he were anywhere but this little shop, hating himself for the wish.

“Yes,” James says, “but as I’ve been foolish enough to throw my own whetstone to the waves, your service is invaluable.”

Will chooses not to mention the possibility of one of James’s comrades lending him a stone. “You said some of your other gear had been lost as well,” he says. “It will need replacing, I assume?”

James nods. “I suppose so,” he says. “At the very least, I’ll need a new set of parts for my rifle.” His mouth twists at Will’s raised eyebrows. “It was a big storm. Quite a bit went overboard.”

“I see.” Will clasps his hands together and winces as the fabric rubs his sore thumb. “We shall have to get that squared away, then,” he says, “but not today.” He inclines his head at the work waiting for him all around the shop. But his heart lifts at the knowledge that James will be returning—he’ll have to; there’s not much a lieutenant can do with a dull sword or without a rifle.

With a curious expression, James says, “Will you have time tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Will says, much too quickly. Then, because he isn’t one to do things by halves, he says, “Come by any time.”

But James looks pleased. “I shall.”


	2. Balestra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Balestra: a jump forward, changing the rhythm and timing of moves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to add to the disclaimer from the previous chapter that, really, I know nothing about history at all, and I don't even have a beta. This is trash and that's what it's meant to be :)

James greets him the next morning not with a smile—Will doesn’t expect one—but with a small bow, barely more than an incline of his head. It’s a common courtesy, almost rude given the ungodly hour and the amount of work he’s about to request.

It makes Will’s stomach lurch anyway.

“A new set of parts for your rifle,” he says, looking back down at the shovel he’s hammering back into shape, “that was it, wasn’t it?”

“Partly,” he hears James say. “Some daggers as well—I’ve got the patterns here—and hooks—” And he proceeds to list what seems to be an entire outfit of equipment, every possible metal tool a lieutenant might need.

Will keeps his eyes on the shovel, but can’t help asking, “Doesn’t our magnificent navy have any of this for you to use?” He ignored the gaffe of the whetstone the day before, thinking it might have something to do with witnessing two men die—but surely James has had time to come to his senses by now?

“And it might as well be a whole new rifle,” James adds as an afterthought, “casing and all. Wouldn’t want anything to have a bad fit.” He pauses. “I beg your pardon?”

The hammering must be too loud. By now, Will regrets having said it, but he lays his tools down. “I said, I thought the navy had equipment for you to use.”

James nods once. “Shoddy work,” he says, dismissive. “I only use the best.” He colors faintly.

So does Will. “I’m honored,” he mumbles. Then he remembers the length of the list he’s just heard and decides he’s not so _very_ honored. He takes the leather satchel from the wall. “Shall we make it official?” he asks. “One complete set of weaponry and details, as well as a galleon with golden sails?” He grins.

The corner of James’s mouth twitches, but he seems almost anxious. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

Will blinks. “It’s my job.” He pulls parchment, quill, and ink from the satchel and quickly writes up the order. It comes to a large enough sum that he feels rather at an advantage, despite the amount of work he’s just taken on. He proffers the parchment for James to sign.

He does so with a flourish and hands the quill back. Will checks the figures one last time, then sprinkles the page with sand to help it dry. “Would you prefer to receive each item as it’s finished,” he asks, “or all at once, at the end?”

“One at a time, I think,” James replies. For several long moments, neither of them say anything; Will counts each second as a blessing. Then James straightens his shoulders and says, “Well, Mr. Turner, I expect you are busy at the best of times, and I’ve just added considerably to your load. I’ll leave you to your work.”

Will bites his tongue to keep himself from saying that it’s nothing, because there’s no point and certainly no excuse; it’s not even true. He smiles, and James nods, and exits. In his sudden solitude, Will wonders if perhaps there was a compliment hidden somewhere in that mess.

Three days later, Will makes his way through town with the finished hooks. It’s just past sunset and the light is fading fast, but Will doesn’t want to put the visit off—it’s frightening, that he feels the need to go, now, as if James will vanish with the sun.

When the cabin boy shows Will to his quarters, James is not there. The boy leaves Will waiting in the small outer room and runs off. Will stands in the middle for a minute or two, then crosses to the painting on the far wall. It’s small, but rich—a scene of a bustling street, with every color vibrant enough that Will almost believes he’s looking through a window. He leans closer to see the minute detail on a woman’s green dress—

“Do you like it?”

Will spins around, heart predictably pounding, entirely unprepared for the way James looks in uniform—he’s seen it before, of course, but rarely this close, and never with James acknowledging his existence. But he clutches his remaining wits and nods. He reminds himself he’s talking of the painting. “It’s exquisite.” It’s also clearly costly, despite its size.

James looks gratified. He comes forward, moving more easily than he ever did in the smithy, until he stands beside Will. “It’s St. Ebbe’s Street,” he says, looking at the painting. “In England.”

It’s the way his gaze softens, tracing the shapes with his eyes. “You grew up there,” Will says. It’s not a question.

James frowns. “Yes.” He’s still studying the painting. “I commissioned it before the crossing. It’s a perfect depiction, except for this.” He points at a man in uniform speaking to a flower-seller. “My father didn’t associate with anyone outside of the military or nobility,” he says, “but the painter knew who I was and I suppose he wanted to make a favorable impression.”

“Did it work?” Will asks.

With a snort, James shrugs. “I never showed it to him.” But then he leans closer to the canvas, as Will did earlier. “That’s my mother,” he says, and indicates the woman in green that Will had been examining. “She wanted me to stay in England, but—well, as my father said, it’s a matter of prospects.”

Will smiles. “You’ve done well for yourself. She must be proud.”

When he looks at Will, James still has that softness in his eyes, and although he isn’t smiling it makes him look younger, as the morning smooths the harshness of the waves. “She is,” James says. From down the corridor a door slams, and James starts slightly. A wall goes up and the softness is gone. He steps away from the painting and Will. “Have you finished part of the order?” he asks.

Trying valiantly not to hear the words for the snub that they are, Will nods. “Yes,” he says, “all of the hooks,” and hefts the box he had forgotten about. James gestures to a table and Will sets it down and opens the latch, revealing the curved pieces with their gleaming, wicked-sharp tips.

Throughout the next week he can’t shake the memory of the sudden change in his expression, from open to shut tight so quickly that Will half thinks he imagined it. More than that, though, it’s the way James’s eyes, his whole face, went quiet and dulled at the edges, as if seen through a mist. Will thinks of the little poetry he knows, how the past is said to be a haze blurred all but beyond recall—and it makes sense, of course, that James should look that way when thinking on home and family. Thoughts of his own past give Will a similar look. He tries not to dwell on the wish he has, deep and untouched by words, that James would look on him that way. He tries to bury it in work. But the work is for James, and unending.

Then he’s there again, and he stands without speaking in the door of the smithy for several minutes before Will happens to look up and see him as he turns around with a bar of iron in his hands. “Lieutenant,” he says in surprise, managing not to drop it on his foot. He lays it on the bench, picks it up, then sets it down again. “Are you here for—what are you here for?”

James comes forward. “Nothing in particular,” he says, and he’s not looking at Will in any particular way—in fact, he’s not looking at Will at all. He’s gazing around the smithy, his cheeks slightly pink. “I simply wondered if you’d—made any progress.” The pink deepens to red.

“Ah.” Will tries to catch his eye, but to no avail. “I’m afraid not,” he says. “The grappling hooks should be done in a fortnight, though.”

James nods, but doesn’t leave, still looking at all of the equipment and half-completed works. Closest to him is a mostly-finished cutlass awaiting decoration on the hilt. He reaches out and taps it with one finger. “Who is this for?”

“Commodore Stainton.”

He points with his chin at a piece of parchment on the wall with designs for a rapier. “And that?”

Puzzled, Will says, “Lord Cosgrove of Warkworth.”

“Hm.” James steps closer to the parchment, peering at the sketches: the needle-thin point, the tapered debole, the ornamental pommel with a pattern of blossoming roses. “What does he plan to do with that, draw pictures in the dirt?”

“He’s a fencer,” Will explains. “He’s making the crossing next year.”

James nods again, and still he doesn't leave. He stands silently for a moment, and Will considers demanding to know what is going on because this really isn't fair on his poor hammering heart, but then James asks, "What's it like?"

Will blinks. "Beg pardon?"

"Being a blacksmith," James clarifies. "What's it like?"

To have something normal to do, Will picks up the iron and places it on the anvil, where it doesn't belong. Unfortunately, when he's done with that, James is still expecting an answer. "What kind of a question is that?" he demands, looking at James, willing him to look back.

He does, with surprise writ plain across his face. "An honest one," he says.

"Well." Will takes the iron off of the anvil. "It's impossible to answer is what it is. What's it like being a lieutenant?"

A small crease appears between James's brows as he frowns and then—almost, almost—hints at a smile. "Touché," he concedes, "but I do want to know. I'll answer your question if you answer mine."

Will hesitates. This is a trap. He is going to say something he will regret.

"I asked first," James prompts.

Oh, to hell with it. Will gives up entirely and sets the iron back on the shelf he first took it from. "Being a blacksmith," he says slowly with his back still turned, "is very frustrating."

"How so?"

Will turns around to face him again. "For one, the work never ends, and some people seem to think it's their duty to double that infinite load."

The trap has been sprung, and Will regrets his words already. James's face pinches off, almost like the sudden wall that went up in the barracks. "Forgive me," he says quickly, "I ought to let you work—“

Too late, Will smiles, trying to draw him back, but he's moving toward the door. "I don't mind," Will bursts out, and it's possible that he regrets _this_ even more than his previous gaffe, but it has the desired effect. James turns. "Please," Will says, "stay."

James flushes a brighter red than Will's ever seen before, and though he stops edging away, he also stops meeting Will's eyes.

"It was a joke," Will says. It falls very flat in the stillness between them.

James nods. "All the same," he says quietly, “I—"

“No, I told you before,” Will says, “this is my job—I don’t begrudge your employment, or the payment.” He spreads his hands. “And when you ask questions, it only makes my day interesting.”

Looking slightly more relaxed, James faces him fully, no longer even hinting at leaving. “Well then,” he says, and his voice holds a measure of humor, “aside from having to deal with unbearable villains such as myself, what is it like to be a blacksmith?”

A triumphant spark ignites in Will’s chest. “It’s the best thing in the world,” he says. “It’s hard work, but clean, and I have the added pleasure of being the one thing holding this colony together.”

James frowns. “I fail to see how you’ve come to that conclusion.”

Will reaches out to grab the pitchfork he finished that morning. “I made this for the Holdsworth farm,” he says, then nods at a candelabra in the shape of several rearing griffins, “and I made that for the governor’s house.” He smiles. “I’ve been informed that when they build the new gaol, I’ll be making the bars.”

There’s a beat, and then James says, “Do you always boast like this?”

“You challenged me,” Will argues. “I’m only defending myself.” He tilts the tines of the pitchfork in James’s direction like it’s a sword. “Unless you’d prefer to settle this a different way?”

James shakes his head. “I know when I’m beaten,” he says, and there’s a strange glimmer in his eyes.

“A wise move.” Will sets the pitchfork aside. “Now, what is it like to be a lieutenant?”

Judging by his expression, James doesn’t want to answer—or perhaps he just wants to hear more about smithing, which Will finds hard to imagine—but his tone is full of good grace. “It’s a very good life,” he says, “very honorable, and not without its own benefits.” He plucks at the front of his uniform as an example.

Will snorts at that. “What of the risk?” he asks. “Storms, pirates, sirens—does none of that worry you?”

“I can withstand all of it for the privilege of serving queen and country,” James tells him, a slight lift to his chin. “Besides, sirens don’t exist.”

“Have you ever seen one?”

A moment passes, during which James stares at him, before he replies, “No.”

“Then how do you know they don’t exist?”

James gazes at him for a few seconds more, inscrutable. “If ever I heard a siren’s song,” he says at last, “I’ve resisted it well enough. I have no reason to fear them.”

Will sighs. “That’s fair. But as for queen and country—that’s a rote answer.”

“Rote, maybe,” James allows, “but not entirely false.” And it’s clear from his voice that he’s not willing to say any more on the subject of fear.

In the new quiet, Will reaches out for the iron on the shelf, wondering if he ought to ask another question or let the fates take charge.

But during his three seconds of thought, James takes a small step back towards the door. “I mustn’t linger like this,” he says, “it’s very bad for both of us, I’m sure.”

Will has a better grip on himself now than before, but he still says, “I disagree.” He isn’t entirely sure what’s possessing him. He turns the iron over carefully in his hands, feeling its heft, weighing his words in his mind. There’s a sense he can’t quite shake, that he’s running out of time to salvage whatever is happening. “I think,” he says quickly, “I mean, it seems to me that—well, I know I’ve quite enjoyed this. However delightful a job I have, solitude can wear on anyone.”

James says nothing.

“You’re welcome to stay a while longer,” Will tells him. Then he does make himself stop, very deliberately shutting his mouth.

“I can’t,” James says, and it might be wishful thinking on Will’s part, but he sounds almost regretful. “I have”—he waves a hand vaguely—“duties, you know. As do you.”

“I do,” Will agrees slowly. He knows James is right, and yet—“And yet,” he says aloud, “here you are.” He raises one eyebrow. “This doesn’t inconvenience me in the slightest.”

James blinks. He frowns. “Do you mean—that is to say—you want me to come back?”

Will nods, his heart in his throat. “If it isn’t disagreeable to you.” Immediately, with a flash of panic, he fears he’s said too much—he ought to excuse himself, take it back—

But then, like a wave-polished edge, James’s face softens. His eyes relax and his mouth curls—he’s smiling, Will realizes, smiling at Will, for the first time, wide and open and true as the blue horizon—and like the horizon, he’s blinding in his sudden beauty. “Nothing,” James says, “could be more agreeable.”

Will waits all the next day, but there’s no appearance—nor the next, or the day after that. He finishes Commodore Stainton’s cutlass and, in his agitation, works harder on the grappling hooks than he would have believed possible.

On the fourth day, as the sun begins to descend from the zenith, Will stalks out of the smithy for a rag draped over the beam and freezes, stops dead. “I suppose you’re here about the order,” he says quietly.

James shakes his head. “I’m here to take you up on your offer of company,” he says. “I’m sorry if I kept you waiting.” His brow is slightly furrowed, as if in anxiety—as if, like Will, he worries about what he reveals.

As his whole body loosens, Will tells himself that’s ridiculous. “Not at all,” he says, and takes the rag down. He gestures at the door to the smithy. “Won’t you come in?”

James enters and sits on the bench where Brown often slumps. He looks uncertain still, and hesitant.

Will regards him from the doorway. “How are you today?” he asks, desperate to put him at ease somehow.

“Well,” James says, and as his eyes meet Will’s, he smiles again. It’s as arresting as the first time. “I’m well,” he says again, and looks it.


	3. Attaque au Fer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Attaque au Fer: an attack on the opponent’s blade.

James becomes an established fixture in the smithy with a rapidity that astonishes Will. Nearly every evening he stops by, stays a few minutes at least, an hour at most. The sun has always dipped below the horizon by the time he arrives, but upon seeing him in the doorway, Will feels it’s risen again. Sundays are best—then, Will has no work and James has fewer obligations, and James often comes earlier, before the sun touches the waves.

Today, a Wednesday, James arrives in bad spirits. “Lieutenant Gillette,” is all he says when Will asks him what’s wrong. He spends the next fifteen minutes frowning at everything in sight. Will tries to coax him into conversation on a variety of subjects, some serious and some not, but to no avail—eventually he, too, lapses into silence as he cleans up the forge and stows various scraps in their proper places.

“What,” James says at last, “do you think amounts to disorderly conduct?” He’s addressing a pair of tongs.

Will appraises the look on his face, still stormy. “In what context?”

“In the context of our Royal Navy,” James says, waving the tongs towards the harbor, “and circumstances entirely outside my control.”

When James offers no further explanation, Will prompts, “What circumstances?”

“That’s beside the point,” James says with a dismissive wave of one hand. “Like I said, I had no control.” His scowl deepens. “Yet to hear the Admiral tell it—” He breaks off, shakes his head in disgust.

“What did you do?” Will asks. It’s unusual to hear James speak badly of his superiors; Will has the sense that in most cases he would rather drive a sword through his heart than even think of disobeying one of his commanding officers. It must be particularly bad if he’s voicing these kinds of opinions.

James gives him a somewhat perplexed look, almost as if he’s amused, but when he speaks, his tone is still sour. “Suffice it to say, I am land-bound for the foreseeable future. Desk work, running errands.” He curls his lip.

Will makes a noncommittal noise. “I’m sorry.” He turns back to a pile of finished nails and starts dropping them into a box. “It won’t be so horrible, will it?” he asks, forcing himself to prevail against the overwhelming urge to peek back at James. “Being stuck here?” He keeps his voice light, as if _here_ didn’t mean just the same as _with me._

A full minute passes before James responds, the only sound the soft _clink, clink_ of nails falling against each other as Will drops them into the box. At length, though, he does speak. "It's not that I don't like it here," he says. "Quite the opposite—I feel more at home in Port Royal than I ever did in England." Will hears him breathe out sharply through his nose. "But I love the sea."

The strength of feeling in his voice is such that Will fumbles a nail and it skitters away across the hard-packed floor. Rather than retrieve it, he turns and watches James.

"I _love_ the sea," James repeats. He is gazing not at the tongs, but out the salt-facing window, his eyes distant, clearly seeing something much more captivating than the narrow alley outside. "The cry of the gulls, the smell of the wind, even the storms—oh, the storms are wonderful," he says, smiling at Will. "The only thing better than storms is the sort of day when the water is like glass and there are no clouds in the sky."

Held prisoner by the fire in James's eyes, Will can only say, "I always thought it was difficult to sail when the water was glassy."

"Oh, it's impossible," James assures him, "but it doesn't mean it's not beautiful. Have you ever been on a ship when there's not a breath of wind, and no one speaks, and you stand at the prow and it seems there's nothing else in the world? Absolute tranquility," he says, "that's how it feels." He smiles again, but more softly. "The most profound peace I've ever felt."

Under the weight of those words Will feels small and somewhat at a loss, although he’s heard most of it before on similar evenings; James is slightly prone to poetic speeches about the ocean. And he, too, has known the strange, inexplicable tug of the sea, as if pulling him out with the tide—but he supposes there's too much of metal in him, and ever since he washed up on the Dauntless so many years ago, he has resisted its call. At the moment he's inclined to give more thought to the wistfulness in James's face, the same as when he spoke of his family. He feels again the lingering, almost painful wish that the look were meant for him.

Oblivious to the turmoil he’s caused, James sighs, and the shadow enters his eyes again. “But none of that matters. I shan’t set foot on a ship for months.”

Will grimaces uncomfortably. “You’ll occupy yourself somehow.” He isn’t sure his sympathy sounds very convincing anymore, so he looks around for the nail he dropped before, but it’s nowhere in sight. He starts peering slightly farther afield, squinting in the dim light now that the sun has set.

“Somehow,” James repeats. He sounds skeptical. After a second or two he appears to realize what Will is doing, and joins in the search. “I do love Port Royal,” he says while poking around beneath a trestle, “but it just doesn’t compare, do you see? And—and more than all of that,” he continues, now sounding rather uncomfortable, “I don’t really fancy spending an abundance of time with Gillette.”

“Is he being punished as well?” Will asks, surprised.

“A bit. Not for as long as I am.” James curses; when Will glances over, it doesn’t look like he’s dropped or broken anything, but he’s scowling again. “I’m not in the habit of blaming others for my mistakes, but in this case—” He purses his lips, goes back to looking for the nail.

“They won’t look for you with me,” Will says. “You’ll just have to spend more time here.”

Almost before Will’s finished speaking, James exclaims, “I found it!” He straightens up with the nail held aloft.

“Oh,” Will says, “thank you.” He stifles an inappropriate amount of disappointment and takes the nail, carefully, without touching James’s hand.

But it seems James was listening. He watches with something of a troubled expression as Will resumes dropping the nails into their box. “I—I would like to,” he says. “Spend more time here, I mean.” Will doesn’t need to look at him to know his face has gone red. “But as much as I might—that is, I can’t.”

“What?” Will nearly drops a nail again, even keeping his eyes on his hands as studiously as he is. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see that James is holding his body stiffly, with more tension than should fit inside a person. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” James says, and lets out a long breath that does nothing to ease the sudden strain between them. “I mean this is part of the reason I’ve been forbidden from from sailing,” he says in a rush. “This—these visits—well, not specifically, but—it does take up time,” he finishes.

Will does turn to look at him, and wishes he hadn’t: James has fixed him with an imploring expression and it’s all he can see, all he can think—“But you don’t come that often,” he says. It’s idiotic. James visits nearly every day. And yet it’s not nearly often enough for that hungry place inside of Will that wants to see him with each new breath.

“I know,” James says. He looks away, thank God. “All the same.”

“What do you mean?” Will asks again. He can hear the way he sounds, like a child, like a man about to lose everything, yet he has to know. “Are you going to stay away from now on?”

James stares at him. “What?” It’s as if the idea never occurred to him. “No,” he says, an incredulous smile spreading across his face. “No, of course not. I don’t think I could bring myself to leave.” It’s Will’s turn to stare, sure he must be misunderstanding something. James coughs, plainly embarrassed, and says, “Like you said, nobody looks for me here. I’m not sure I’m prepared to give that up.” His smile is slightly rueful now.

It’s likely, Will knows, that he’s only saying this because he has nowhere else to go. He is after all confined to dry land for the next several months. But there’s something marvelous about hearing the words _I don’t think I could bring myself to leave_ in James’s voice, and knowing they’re meant for him.

The next day James is his usual self again—not exactly cheerful, but less like an impending thunderstorm. It’s what counts as a good mood by him, and it lasts for a week and a half. Then a shipment of ore comes in and Will goes down to the docks in the evening to receive it.

He must spend a full quarter of an hour standing ten feet from James before he notices him. The way he’s standing, so stiff—even in the smithy he never seems to fully relax, but he’s even more tense here, and Will realizes just how tightly he controls his every movement.

It doesn’t look as if James has seen him, so Will holds a short but furious debate with himself. Eventually the weaker side wins out and he says, in what he hopes is a casual tone, “Hello!”

At that precise moment, someone shouts, “James!” from farther up the pier. Will turns and sees two of James’s fellow sailors hailing him, one laughing, holding up the other, who is clearly drunk.

James, too, looks toward the sound, and when Will turns back to him, their eyes meet. It’s very different from that moment, several months ago now, when James happened to glance his way. This is just as much a coincidence, but his gaze is no longer unknowing—it’s surprised, first, perhaps tending more towards shock—and then there appears something in his eyes that Will can only describe as horror.

It doesn’t last long, a heartbeat at most. James’s face works and then smooths over and he steps toward Will—then past him, without a word, without acknowledgment of any kind.

Will is offended enough that he can only watch mutely as James brushes by him, close enough to touch, can only stare after him as he walks away to greet his friends. Perhaps they aren’t his friends, though, Will thinks with a numb detachment, watching James’s manner harden still further. It’s clear even from this distance. And he isn’t like that around Will—except now, apparently, given what’s just happened, it seems that he is.

In the days that follow, James doesn’t apologize, or explain, or even visit. It’s worse, Will discovers, than he could possibly have imagined: after a scant month he has grown so accustomed to James’s presence that he feels his absence like the old beggars say they feel their missing limbs.

At the end of the first unbearable week, Brown stumbles into the shop halfway through the morning, nearly falling as he crosses the threshold. Will blinks at him; it’s not unusual for him to make an appearance, but he normally only does so if there’s important business to attend to. Most of Port Royal, however, knows who makes their tools. “Is there something you need?” he asks, eyeing the stains on Brown’s coat, but he’s careful to keep his tone respectful—the man is his master, after all.

Brown gives what might be a nod and steadies himself against the anvil. “Someone t’ see you,” he says, waving one arm in the direction of the door.

“Who?” Will demands as his heart gives a massive leap.

“Pretty lady,” Brown says. His brow furrows as he thinks. “Big hat.”

Concealing his disappointment rather well, he thinks, for its inordinate size, Will goes outside. But he can’t keep his surprise hidden when he sees it’s Elizabeth who’s waiting for him. “Miss Swann.” It’s so unexpected that all he can say is, “To what do I owe the pleasure?” It feels stiff, and too formal for the way they are, but that’s probably a good thing.

She smiles at him, impish as always, and it’s as if no time has passed and they’re children again. “Call me Elizabeth, please, Will,” she says, and that, too, is constant. But Will is no simpleton—he knows how far these things can stretch, even if she did all but pull him from the sea.

So he only smiles back. “How are you?”

“I’m well,” she says, “and you?” The smile she wears now is less mischievous and much warmer, something more than courtesy.

Besotted as he is with a certain pair of green eyes, Will can’t deny that she, too, scatters his thoughts somewhat. “I’m very well,” he says, and wonders if he ought to say more. If, perhaps, she wants him to.

If she does, she doesn’t show it. “I know you’re very busy,” she says—and the way she says it, it doesn’t seem like a slight against the sweat and dirt that coats his skin—“but I wondered if you might walk with me this Sunday.”

It’s something they used to do often, taking one path or another along the walls or through the town. If they talked, it was of small things, but that was rare—they were young enough that they played games, or chased each other into places where they weren’t allowed, and did their best to escape without consequence. Even if they managed that, however, there was always a price to pay, through a torn petticoat or time lost at the forge. Nevertheless, when Will thinks of Elizabeth, the sunshine of those walks is like a sheen over his memories.

But it’s been years since their last outing. It makes Will frown. “Gladly,” he says, and means it. “Why?”

“Will.” She fixes him again with that gaze of hers. “I hardly think I need a reason to spend time with my oldest friend.”

No, he thinks, naturally not, but he can barely remember the last time they spent time together outside of a chance meeting. There aren’t many reasons for the governor’s daughter to speak to the blacksmith, let alone his lowly apprentice. Still—there are even fewer reasons to refuse an invitation from a friend. If she asks to see him, Will knows he can never refuse, even if he wanted to.

On Sunday night, he finishes two of the knives for James. They’re a matching pair, and Will tells himself that’s why he sets off to deliver them before he’s even begun to work on the rest—not, as some part of him whispers, because he wants to see James.

It doesn’t matter. When he arrives, James isn’t there—and the cabin boy tells Will he doesn’t know where he’s gone or when he’ll be back. “It’s all right,” Will says, though it isn’t, and tries to remember the way to James’s quarters so he can leave the knives for him to find when he returns. He’d like to wait and seek him out in person, but he can’t think of a good enough excuse.

As he rounds the final corridor, he collides with an officer coming in the opposite direction, and one of the sheathed daggers is knocked from his hands to the floor. The man picks it up, then straightens and squints at Will. “Aren’t you the blacksmith’s apprentice?” he says, rather sharply. He looks vaguely familiar. “What are you doing here?”

Will takes the dagger back. “Delivery,” he says shortly, not liking his tone.

“Who needs daggers?” the man demands. “The navy supplies our weapons.”

It’s difficult to resist rolling his eyes. “Lieutenant Norrington ordered a new set,” Will explains. He glances at James’s door, trying to edge past the man, but it’s a very narrow corridor.

“Ah, yes, of course,” the man says, and it’s almost a sneer. Will suddenly recognizes him—that night, on the pier, when James looked right through him, this man was one of the two who called him away. Will isn’t certain, but he thinks this is the one who was drunk.

“Gillette?” It’s James’s voice from behind him. “Why—oh.”

Will turns with a smile, but falters when he sees the expression on James’s face. If it made any kind of sense, he would say James looks almost panicked. “Daggers for you,” Will says, staring at him, wondering what’s wrong. If _he’s_ what’s wrong.

James swallows audibly and takes the daggers, gaze fixed on a point somewhere over Will’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he says in a voice like wood.

“Lucky for you we’ve got the best smith in the Caribbean,” Gillette cuts in. “Otherwise you’d be stuck with half-rate iron after a trick like that—”

 _“Thank_ you,” James repeats, now obviously boring holes in Gillette with his eyes. Still without looking at Will, he says, “I’ll come by the smithy with payment tomorrow, if that’s all right.”

Will nods, bewildered, and flees.

That night is the first time he loses sleep over what he’s come to think of as his terrible problem. Why, he wonders, has everything suddenly fallen apart? He remembers what James said about spending too much time in the smithy, but he clearly didn’t mean to let that change his habits. Still, Will would understand, if only he hadn’t continued to visit for so long. To disappear so abruptly, without warning of any kind, seems to speak to a deeper problem.

So Will thinks back, tries to remember if he could have said anything to cause this. But there’s nothing that comes to mind, though he’s slightly embarrassed at how well he recalls most of their conversations. Which makes him think that this has to do with the night at the docks, when James looked at him with so much distress and alarm. As if Will were the last person in the world that James ever wanted to see.

The pain of that thought keeps him up until the sun peeks over the fort. It sends the sky into a chaos of deep blue and richest gold, a masterpiece that on any other morning would make Will breathless—but he barely notices.

He wishes it weren’t Sunday. He wants to work, to hammer and pound and lose himself in even the gentler details of the job. But anything more strenuous than walking is out of the question, so he does what he can, pacing a circuit around the town, staying well away from the docks.

At the appointed time, he meets Elizabeth at their old spot, beneath the bells on Queen Street. She smiles when he rounds the corner, but as he approaches, she seems concerned. “You look terrible,” she tells him.

“I’m quite all right,” he assures her, but he’s not certain he sounds at all convincing. They set off beneath the heavy evening sky on a route that seems predetermined, at least to Elizabeth, who seems to be waiting for him to say something. Will has no idea what that might be, so he tries to make himself wake up in the strong gusts of wind.

Eventually Elizabeth speaks. “Did you hear that Lord Cosgrove is making the crossing next year?”

Will nods. “He ordered a rapier to have ready when he arrives.”

“Oh, of course.” She seems embarrassed not to have thought of it.

“Do you know him?” Will asks, trying to put her at ease.

“I know his sister,” she says, “and we both know his aunt.” She smiles at his confusion. “You remember—old Tabitha Cosgrove? She must have caught us out a dozen times running through her stables.”

A vague memory surfaces, of a matronly woman saying stern words from far above, and a feeling of mortification that couldn’t have been greater if she’d shouted. “In front of her carriage, too, wasn’t it?”

Elizabeth’s face lights up as she laughs. “You do remember!”

“How could I forget?” Will shakes his head. “I nearly lost my apprenticeship once because of her.”

“What?” Elizabeth gasps.

“It’s true.” He still remembers the fear of it. “Once—one of the last times—we broke a window.”

“Yes, the cobbler’s shop, but how did that get you in so much trouble?”

“It was rather complicated,” Will says, “but the gist of it is that the cobbler’s daughter was Lady Cosgrove's maid, and she had to leave and work in the shop to make up the money to fix the window—which didn’t please Lady Cosgrove at all, so she spoke to Mr. Brown about it. Well within her rights, I might add.”

After a silent moment, Elizabeth says, in a rather hushed voice, "I didn't know that."

When Will looks over at her, he's startled to see how upset she looks. "It doesn't matter," he says quickly, "not anymore at least. And even then, I didn't mind." She shoots him a skeptical glance. "I mean it."

"Well." She smooths the front of her dress. "I'm still sorry about it."

"Don't be," he says, and resists the urge to bump her shoulder with his own the way he once would have.

As if she senses it, like a ghost, she sighs. "It seems awfully silly, doesn't it?"

"What does?"

“Oh—" She makes a frustrated noise and an unladylike face. "Well, we used to be the best of friends, didn't we? And now we barely even see each other from afar."

It isn't fair of her, Will thinks, to say these things when nothing can be done to change them. There is no future even in friendship for someone of her status and someone of his. And he doesn't find such a harsh truth silly in the least. "It's not all cribbage and cotillions, you know," he says, cutting a grin at her that he doesn't feel. "I've been busy."

She looks at him with sharper eyes. "Yes, you have been busy. My father’s been complaining that you have so much work, he can’t commission the ornament he wants. What in heaven’s name are you working on so diligently?”

“Lieutenant Norrington has taken it upon himself to keep me in bread for the next year,” Will explains. “One one of his last voyages, he lost almost all of his equipment, and he’s ordered a new set from me.”

Unexpectedly, Elizabeth laughs. “I heard about that,” she tells him. “Everyone was talking about it for at least a week.”

“Why?” Will asks. “I know it must be dreadfully boring at those tea parties, but surely a simple mistake wasn’t so riveting—”

“So one would think,” Elizabeth agrees. She stops walking and leans on the wall overlooking the harbor, still laughing slightly as she looks down at the empty docks below. “But some of the other officers found the whole thing very entertaining.”

Will leans on the wall as well, feeling the sun-warmed stone on the palms of his hands. “What about it was so entertaining?” he asks, starting to feel a bit confused. “His things only fell overboard.”

“They certainly went over the side,” she says, “but from what the officers were saying, they didn’t so much fall as were thrown.”

“Thrown overboard?”

Her eyes crinkle against the sun with her widening smile. “By Lieutenant Norrington himself. It’s part of the reason he’s not allowed out of the harbor—I expect you’ve heard about that as well.”

Will frowns. “That doesn’t seem likely.”

“Well, yes, that’s what I said, but apparently it was even less likely that all of that equipment just happened to get washed away. There was quite a lot of it, you know, and the Lieutenant was standing very close by. If the sea took his things, it would have taken him as well.” She must see that he doesn’t believe her. “I heard it from Lieutenants Gillette and Groves,” she tells him. “They’re almost always on the same missions as he is, so I think they must have been telling the truth.”

Will says nothing, thinking of Gillette’s rather recalcitrant manner. But James has always spoken of both him and Groves as honest—difficult to work with, yes, but not dishonorable.

“And yet,” Elizabeth continues, now sounding somewhat uncertain herself, “why would he do it? It’s not as if he had shoddy equipment to begin with. And it’s not cheap—in time or money.”

At that, Will has to chuckle. He knows as well as anyone how much time it costs. “It’s thankless all around,” he agrees. The only thing James stands to gain is—

And then, though he’s staring into the bright path of the sun as it starts to set, a riot of color if ever there was one, the world around Will seems to fade away: such is the force of the thought that occurs to him. If what Elizabeth says is true, and James threw all his things out of his ship on purpose, then he must have wanted new ones—rifle, hooks, knives, all of it. He chose to go to Will for them, rather than use the naval supplies. Does it mean—he wonders—tries to reign his thoughts in, but his heart races on ahead—does it mean James wants to see Will as much as Will wants to see him?

It’s an idea which, having been conceived, floods his consciousness with the strength of a tidal wave. James has since spent a truly unnecessary amount of time in the smithy, often without anything of merit to discuss, no business to bring him there and no complications to make him stay as long as he does.

“I expect it pays well, though,” Elizabeth says, bringing Will back to his body so abruptly that he has to tighten his grip on the wall.

As his surroundings come rushing back, so do all of his doubts. This is foolish speculation, a projection of Will’s own senseless desires, nothing more. The rough stones of the wall dig into his hands and the sunset stabs blinding lances at his eyes, forcing him to squint.

After that, though Will does his best to set the matter aside, he can’t deny that the walk has lost most of its appeal. He puts forward as pleasant a manner as he can as they start walking again and speak again of meaningless things—expected promotions, the politics of Britain, none of which Will knows enough about to feel confident in the discussion. He’s more than happy to let Elizabeth do most of the talking, and though he knows she can sense the rift, and feels embarrassed about it, it’s beyond him to make more of an effort, guilty as it makes him feel.

Eventually Elizabeth brings them back to Queen Street. Properly, Will should escort her home, but it seems they’ve silently agreed that it helps neither of them to be seen in each other’s company. She turns to him beneath the bells. “I meant what I said before,” she tells him. “I think we ought to spend more time together.”

Despite his low spirits, Will agrees. He smiles, smaller but no less heartfelt, and says, “I’d like that very much.”

“Shall we say next Sunday, then? The same time and place?”

Will nods. “I look forward to it.” And he does.

It’s growing dark quickly now, but Elizabeth’s eyes shine in the dusk. “Goodnight, then, Will.”

He bows, kisses her hand. “Goodnight, Miss Swann.”

As she turns to go, Will hears her sigh quietly. And as he makes his own way back to the smithy, he sighs as well.

There’s a weight in his bones, heavy as an anchor. This is nothing new to him, and that’s part of his frustration; still, the quick lift-and-fall of his hopes has plunged him into melancholy. And how _callow_ of him to have believed the hope even for a moment, like a witless child chasing after a receding wave. James can’t bear to address him in public—how could he have feelings for Will?

His dejection slows his steps so that by the time he arrives at the smithy, the sun has well and truly set, and he concentrates on not tripping over the uneven street as he approaches the door. Suddenly a figure looms up out of the darkness, so suddenly that Will nearly lashes out. He masters himself in time and peers through the shadows to make out the face.

It’s James.

 _Speak of the devil,_ Will thinks, _and he shall appear._ He blinks at James for a second or two with his mind in complete disorder, then turns and unlocks the door, goes inside.

There’s still a candle burning, the wick sputtering low in the melted wax. Brown’s unconscious form is a mere suggestion at the back of the shop. Will strides over to a scattering of parchment rolls on the floor, clearly knocked from their table by a drunken, flailing hand, and gathers them up. He places them back where they belong and stays there, listening as James follows him through the door.

There comes the soft noise of a throat being cleared. “I came to pay you for the daggers,” James says.

An unhappy smile twists Will’s lips. He’d forgotten about James’s promise to pay “tomorrow”—which is now today, of course. But now that he’s remembered, he can only think of it as another damning piece of evidence against him. James is here on business. At the root of the matter, that’s all it has ever been, however much Will might wish it were otherwise.

He turns around. Even in this state he feels his smile turn genuine at the sight of James, cast in a warm glow by the candle’s light. “I appreciate it.” He takes the proffered purse.

“You look terrible,” James says, frowning slightly.

“You’re the second person to say that today,” Will says. “I’m perfectly fine.” This time, he hears clearly how false it sounds.

James appears to hear it, too. “Mr. Turner,” he says, “I did not come only to pay you.” He looks at the ground, at his hands, then directly at Will. “I came to apologize.”

The hope laps at Will’s heart again, the weakest of waves. He beats it back. “Apologize?”

“For my behavior,” James clarifies. He looks to be blushing, though it’s difficult to be sure in the dimness. “I acted appallingly, and for that I beg your forgiveness.”

Will stares at him and feels his own cheeks grow warm. “I appreciate it,” he says again, trying to take it to heart but unable to do so completely—it’s an apology, but not for what has set him so adrift.

“I mean this in earnest,” James presses. “I’m more than ashamed of it.” He seems to be clasping his hands together rather tightly. “I would hate for you to—to see me as an ill-mannered man—yet I know you must,” he says, visibly losing some of his composure.

Will opens his mouth; nothing comes out.

“I did not behave so out of dislike.” James’s voice is close to desperate now, and he’s taken several steps closer to Will, who stands frozen, equal parts trepidation and wild, frenzied hope. “You must understand that. It was simply—there are certain people with whom I—” He breaks off, still looking into Will’s face. “My actions, such as they were, are inexcusable, but—I hope you understand that I was not so cold out of a wish to end our—our friendship.” He leans forward, eyes wide. “Please, Will, forgive me.”

If his earlier realization was a tidal wave, this is a rip current, a fierce and violent surge of certainty. All the mysteries fit neatly into place at last—the time spent in the smithy, the mix of stiffness and warmth, the back-and-forth hesitancy and painful eagerness, even—especially—the coldness in front of others. It’s fear, the same chilling terror Will himself has felt.

Curiously, he feels no fear now, though something keeps him from bursting with the truth he knows. James is still gazing at him with that beseeching look— _love,_ it is, it can be nothing else—and the words flow unchecked from Will’s lips: “I forgive you.” Of course, of course. Where the fear should be, there is only the tumultuous joy of wind in a wide white sail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm seeing people leave kudos on here and we're such a small fandom that I really want to get to know you guys! Please talk to me/[Audrey](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Palebluedot/pseuds/Palebluedot), my partner in crime! There aren't enough of us to sit around shipping (heh) this on our own. Drop me a line [on my tumblr](http://blanketed-in-stars.tumblr.com/) or over Skype (nicole_crashell). I do not bite!


	4. Prise de Fer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prise de Fer: attempting to control the opponent’s blade by moving it with one’s own.

"—And then," says James, "if you can believe it, he simply walked away! Didn't even allow her to explain." He snorts. "The next day she just wrote him a note telling him where the money had gone, and he came out of his office with a face like death."

Will can barely breathe, he's laughing so hard, but he controls himself enough to ask, "What did he tell the duchess? And the notaries?"

"Oh," James waves an airy hand, "they'd all figured it out for themselves by that point, so when he showed up at their doors—"

"No," Will moans, covering his mouth with his hand.

"Yes," says James with relish. He's grinning broadly, looking as delighted with Will's reaction as he is with the story itself. He shakes his head. "I must say, though, I have never seen a man make quite as dignified a return from disgrace."

Still chuckling, Will sighs. "Does Admiral Gillan know you tell this story?"

"Lord in Heaven," James says, "no. And don't you dare tell him."

"I don't know." Will is still holding his hammer though he hasn't used it in over twenty minutes. Now he puts it down and reaches for his jacket on his way towards the door. "I think he ought to know the slander his lieutenant's been spouting about him."

"I can't let you ruin my career, Mr. Turner," James says, smiling, but making a show of grasping the hilt of his sword. When Will pays him no mind and continues in the direction of the door, James catches his wrist as he goes by and pulls him to the side so his way is blocked by a trestle. "Got you." He grins. "Another few steps and you'd have destroyed my whole life."

Will grins, too, but his heart is pounding. There's less than a foot of space between them—he can see the slight shadow of stubble on James's jaw—and James still hasn't let go of his wrist.

Apparently realizing this at the exact same moment, James lets go as if burned and steps back, turns away. "I'm not exaggerating when I say that the Admiral would have me skinned alive." His voice is light when he says it, and he's bending his head to look at the detail on a douter, but Will is certain it's a thin disguise.

He doesn't press the matter. There's an art to James, Will has learned—an art to talking to him, understanding him, much like there's an art to the forge. You have to know when to add heat and when to let things cool, when to strike a blow and when to bend the metal gently. One ill-timed move and the whole thing will be ruined.

So, no, he doesn't press. He steps back as well and goes to hang his coat back up, moves away from James, as he has for the past several weeks, though he's starting, now, to feel the slightest hint of impatience. Now that he's seen, plainly, the truth of James's feelings for him, it's torture to look at him and say nothing—of any of it. "Well, I won't tell," Will says, matching James's tone in brightness, "if it means so much to you."

When James faces him again, his expression is smooth. "Your discretion is much appreciated." He turns the douter over in his hands, examining it. One side of his mouth lifts. "Though I would very much enjoy seeing the look on his face if you were to recall his humiliation to him."

Will chuckles, clearing his things from the workbench, rolling sheets of parchment back up and placing them on their shelves. "I thought you liked the Admiral."

"I do," James assures him, "but—well, it is sometimes fun to see the stoics break down, is it not?"

Blinking at him, Will he says, "It's first-rate entertainment." He goes back to tidying up, thinking that the only stoic he wants to break is James himself. What he wouldn't give for just a moment of honesty—even the laughter before was issued from a hard-held frame, a rock threatening at any moment to fracture, if only he knew where to strike.

He's running out of time, too, that much is clear. For almost seven months now, all of these visits have been explained away by the massive order that James placed to get all that new equipment—to be sure, they hardly ever speak of it now, but if anyone were to ask, Will knows both he and James would give it as their excuses. They've been lucky; no one has asked. But he is a good smith, and he can only work so slowly before he starts to despise himself. He is nearing the end of the list.

He tries to waste time without wasting it—working on other peoples' orders, of which he has more than enough. He is pulling the door to the smithy shut behind him, thinking that this would all be much easier if Admiral Gillan's quillon had never become warped, when James rounds the corner and says, "Surely the man holding the colony together isn't taking a holiday?"

Will rolls his eyes. "One would hope that such a prestigious man would have earned his holiday several times over," he says. "But unfortunately I'm only going to the docks. There's a shipment of coal in and I've got to collect it."

James chuckles. "I'll help," he says. "I'd hate to have walked all this way for nothing."

 _"All this way,"_ Will scoffs. "I think you must be getting soft, being on land so long." And they set off through the pale light.

It's a beautiful morning, slightly cool. The sounds of shopkeepers busily setting out their wares and a child screaming angrily on a far-off street seem muted as the dawn, which hasn't yet fully arrived, making every color soft and every breeze a whisper.

They've almost reached the waterfront when James speaks. "I do worry about getting soft." His voice is quiet and it takes Will several moments to realize that he's responding to the last thing that Will said, over five minutes ago.

"What do you mean?" Will looks at him out of the corner of his eye—not just his body, but the way he holds it, the way he moves. One could call James many things, he thinks, but not even a stranger would call him _soft._

"Not—not soft," James amends, "but out of practice. Not with the sword," he says, when Will opens his mouth, "or with marksmanship or any of that—I mean with thinking on my feet, being ready to act."

Will shakes his head. "You'll pick it up again."

"That's not good enough," James says. He doesn't sound angry, but concerned, to a degree that's unexpected and slightly unsettling. "With everything that's going on, I can't stand the thought of—well." He crosses his arms as they walk.

As if to mirror the change in his tone, the first red streaks of sunlight glare fully in their eyes the moment they turn the corner. "Everything that's going on?" Will repeats, squinting.

James sighs. "There have been several unanticipated attacks on our ships," he says, heavily, with an air of great unhappiness. "Even some of the other colonized islands have been targeted." He glances at Will's frown and away again. "Pirates, of course."

It's a mark of the earliness of the hour that Will's first reaction is concern. "Of course," he murmurs back, thinking of burning towns and cannon shots. And—yes, there it is, beneath the sympathy for the victims: the fear. He pushes it down and looks at James. "And you want to help." It's not a question. How could it be? That James would want to be on the front lines is as apparent as the blazing sunrise.

"Naturally," James replies. He seems to feel that Will's statement is so obvious, no further explanation is needed. His brow is furrowed, and he seems to be trying to look directly into the sun.

"Well," Will says, "I'm sorry you're being held prisoner here, then." He tries for a joking tone and fails miserably. James doesn't respond.

By that time, they've reached the docks, and Will signs for the coal from a German fellow missing two fingers. He and James take two sacks each and begin the trek again, this time uphill, much less cheerfully than they started out the first time. The coal is heavy. There is no breath for talking.

But there's plenty of time, unfortunately, for thinking. And what Will thinks is this: he is in trouble, more than he's ever been in before. He ought to feel bad for James, being cooped up on land, and for all the poor souls whose homes have been pillaged, since their defense is lacking an excellent soldier. But all he feels is relief—James won't have to fight. He will be safe.

When they arrive back at the smithy, they dump the coal beside the forge and stand a moment, breathing hard. "See?" Will says. "Not soft at all."

James, who is rather magnificently sweaty, rolls his eyes. "No softer than you, at any rate." But the words are flat, and he leaves a minute later with only a brief good-bye.

Elizabeth, too, mentions the pirates. Their outings are infrequent and ever shorter, as both of them are careful not to attract attention by their conversation. And as they slip quietly along behind the merchant stalls, the last place anyone would think to look, she says, “Do you think they’ll come to Port Royal?”

“I don’t see why not,” Will says reluctantly. “This is a good fort, with strong walls and a solid trade.” He sighs. “If I were a pirate, I’d certainly attack it.”

For just a moment, Elizabeth turns her head quickly to stare at him with a startled expression—but before Will can do more than register his own sense of surprise, she looks away again, her face calm. “Are you at all frightened?”

“Aren’t you?” Will counters. But her voice doesn’t seem to hold any fear. On the contrary, she sounds almost excited, as she used to sound just before they were apprehended in their mischief-making.

“Oh, yes,” Elizabeth assures him. It’s mostly convincing. Then she smiles at him, and he sees the trickery in her eyes.

He shakes his head, not bothering to respond. He’s never been able to quite fathom her—if he’s honest with himself, it’s half the reason he loves her so: she keeps him guessing. Yet he thinks that even if he were to know her inside and out, it would only strengthen the hold she has on him.

Thinking of that turns his mind to the other source of magnetism in his life, with the same maddening mystery, drawing him nearer even as a sail fills with wind. It’s a dangerous line of thought, but he asks—“Do you know which ships are being sent out? To stop the pirates, I mean?”

She looks pleased to be asked. “I had to sit sipping my wine as all the generals discussed it,” she tells him. “Let me see—the _Hyena,_ I think, and the _Phoenix_ and _Adventure_ —oh, and the _Dauntless,_ of course. She’s setting sail next week for Port Maria.”

“The _Dauntless?”_ Will repeats, his voice sharper than he intends. James was angry about being left behind—but if he was mistaken—

Elizabeth frowns. “Yes, why not? It’s a rather good ship.” She chuckles at her own understatement. “Lieutenant Norrington’s been in a foul mood about it, if what I hear is correct, but as they said—it’s his own fault for getting himself suspended.”

Will turns his face away until he can suppress his smile.

Her rumor turns out to be perfectly accurate, as all through the next week, James glowers at earth, sky, and sea alike. But Will has no time to mention this to Elizabeth, whose exploits with the blacksmith’s apprentice have, apparently, been noticed. Nobody tells Will, but she doesn’t seek him out or send him messages for several weeks, and they do not pass in the street, and he can’t think of another explanation for her silence.

It’s just as well: at loose ends, James has decided to live vicariously through Will—or as nearly as he can, since they both have more than enough to be getting on with as it is. But it doesn’t stop James from spending his single day off in the smithy, no longer sulking, but determined to keep himself busy.

“I do have work to do here,” Will tells him, not needing to look up to know James is staring at him.

“Do it later,” James suggests.

Will snorts. “Need I remind you that you’re paying me?”

“Precisely.” James’s grin is clear in his voice. “Do you know how to use all these swords you’re making?”

“I know a fair amount.”

“I’ve only ever seen you threaten me with a pitchfork. Not particularly convincing.”

It’s touching that he remembers that, but Will rolls his eyes. “I expect I could kill you rather quickly with this hammer,” he says, holding it up.

“I don’t doubt it,” James agrees. “But as I said—what about the sword?” He pushes off of his bench and draws his weapon, ringing, from its sheath. “Come on,” he says, “come here. Show me this _fair amount.”_

Will sets the hammer down. “Fine.” He takes a sword from the wall and lifts it; sure enough, James has it out of his hand within a matter of minutes.

“As I expected,” James says, “you—”

“Look,” Will says heatedly, “in my line of work—”

“—only need to work on your grip,” James finishes. He doesn’t sound smug, or look it, though his eyes are sparkling. He picks up Will’s sword and brings it back to him. “Hold it.”

Will does, embarrassed to feel his face grow hot, which only increases his blush.

“Loosen your hand,” James tells him. “Don’t squeeze the hilt like that—just your thumb and first two fingers will do.”

“Like this?”

“Well—” James gives a short sigh and reaches out, adjusting Will’s hand with his own. “Closer to the quillon—yes, there.” He steps back and takes up his own sword again. “Now try—” But after just one blow, which is easily deflected—and to be honest, Will isn’t making much of an effort—James shakes his head, letting his arm drop.

“What is it now?” Will demands, not quite upset but certainly not pleased. He doesn’t enjoy being made a fool of, particularly not in his own smithy, and he feels that if only there were a _point_ to this exercise—

James sheathes his blade. “You’re holding the sword like a hammer,” he says, blunt and yet sharply to the point, but it still doesn’t sound rude.

That doesn’t make it less frustrating. “What do you mean, like a hammer?”

“I mean you’re swinging it wide,” James explains, “and your arm is—wrong.”

“You do it, then,” Will says, barely keeping himself from snapping the words out. But before he can offer up the hilt, James has come around to his other side and rested one hand on Will’s shoulder, the other stretched along his sword arm. Will stiffens as if struck by lightning and turns his head sharply to stare at James.

But James doesn’t seem to realize what he’s done, focusing on the sword at the end of their arms. His hand covers Will’s and minutely shifts his fingers along the hilt. “Loosen your hand,” he repeats. “Hold it gently.” His mouth is inches from Will’s ear. “And when you strike, keep your arm loose.”

Will swallows. “What?” He tears his gaze from James before it becomes too obvious.

“Here,” James says, amused, quiet. His hand turns from resting to guiding as he pulls Will’s arm, tugs it out at an angle—their bodies move together with the motion and it takes a massive amount of effort not to freeze up again. “Don’t move your whole arm,” James instructs, “keep it small. Pay attention to the weight.” He presses along his arm, a brand, Will thinks, of fire, hot as the forge. “Do you feel it?”

“Yes,” Will says. It comes out hoarse. Unable to bear it, he looks at James again, and at the same instant, James looks at him, keen, close. All the steel in the world could not fortify Will against the unyielding force of that gaze, green as the sea in sunlight, hard as the waves that lash the beach.

The long, aching moment hangs between them—all else falls away, and someone shouts outside but Will pays it no mind; neither does James. A possibility springs to mind, because James is looking at him with an openness meant for the horizon and Will cannot think but that it is made for growing lost upon—

“Will, are you there?” comes the voice from outside again, and the door opens, a clamor of noise pouring into the space between them. “Oh, thank goodness,” Elizabeth says as James wrenches himself away. “I’ve only just escaped Lady Kennedy and her dreadful husband, it’s—James!” She stops short and, amazingly, flushes. “Lieutenant Norrington,” she says, “what a surprise!” Then her eyes fall on the sword in Will’s hand. “Have I interrupted a sale, or were you about to kill each other?”

With a longing glance at the sword, as if he desires nothing more than to throw himself upon it, James draws himself upright. He, too, is flushing, his face contorted into a mask of decorum. “Neither, my lady,” he says. “I was leaving.” He bows and takes to his heels.

Elizabeth stares after him, then turns to Will, a question plain in her eyes. But she does not ask it. Instead, she bites down on a smile. “I do declare,” she says, “one must endure hours of mindless chatter for barely half a minute of real conversation. What do you say, Will? Shall we slip away as well and walk along the cliffs?

Will’s body feels abruptly cold, and the tips of his fingers, numb. So close, he thinks, and sees again the terrible panic that enveloped James’s features. “Lady Kennedy will be wondering where you are,” he chokes out as he hangs the sword back on the wall. He hates the sound of his own voice.

He hates, too, the sudden tightness around Elizabeth’s mouth. “They won’t miss me,” she says, her smile falsely bright, “of that I can assure you.” She walks toward him through the dim smithy, her blue dress blinding in the gloom. “I have scarcely had a moment of my own in weeks,” she says, “and my father has expressly forbidden me from”—her voice twists to a mockery of the governor’s—“ _demeaning dalliances.”_ Then she softens. “But I don’t care. I want to see you.”

He can feel her eyes on him. And he’s touched; he’s missed her wit and laughter. But his heart pounds a salt-stain against his ribs and he says, clenching his fingers around the handle of his hammer, “I have work that I must do.”

“Then tomorrow,” Elizabeth tries, “or the day after.”

Will can sense her reluctance to beg. He wants to tell her that it is not her fault, that he would like nothing more than to sit with her among the grassy hills above the fort, that when he thinks of the word _freedom,_ he sees her face. But it is all impossible—it simply cannot be—and he doesn’t trust his voice. If he looks at her, he fears she will read in his eyes more than he wishes to tell. So he raises the hammer, lets it fall.

Elizabeth starts at the clang, and at the corner of his vision he sees her back go straight, as if she feels the blow. Her voice, when she speaks, is iron. “Of course. Forgive me for disturbing you.” Her skirts rustle on her way out. He hears her pause at the door, thinks she might say something more, knows that he deserves it—but she stays silent, and Will is alone.

He hits the metal on the anvil, which is too cold, again, and resists the urge to throw the hammer across the smithy. He breathes in. _So close._ He breathes out.

Elizabeth does not appear again, which cases guilt to roil in Will’s stomach. Mercifully, however, James does return after two days: Will does not think he could survive having driven both of them away, and has to sit down to conceal his weak-kneed relief.

But although James returns, it is not the same. He does not smile, and keeps his distance, listening and giving subdued responses from the other side of the shop. It’s as if the last months were a mere dream—and Will isn’t sure if he’d prefer that. He thinks it might hurt less.

The fire, he thinks, has grown cold. Gone is that trembling closeness that they shared, small and improbable as it was. Will doesn’t challenge this—he lets it happen, and tells himself that James will come closer again once his fears have died down. But as the weeks stretch on, it seems the fear is insurmountable.

Then Will returns from a delivery and finds him leaning on the smithy door with his shadow long in the waning light. This is not unusual. What is unusual is the rum bottle dangling from his hand and the way he slouches to one side. When Will steps closer to unlock the door, he can smell it: James is drunk.

With James following, Will enters the shop. He retrieves his satchel from its shelf and opens it. James regards him from his bench without speaking, so Will keeps silent as well. It’s easier than coming up with something to say in this situation. He’s never seen James drink or even heard him mention alcohol, though admittedly there hasn’t been much of an opportunity—nevertheless, it strikes Will as strange, and makes him uncertain.

After several seconds, James says, “Where were you just now?” His voice is only slightly slurred.

“I had to make a delivery,” Will tells him. He dips his quill in the inkwell and begins to record the order in his ledger. “Hinges for the Gretford farm.”

“Oh,” James says. He frowns, opens his mouth, closes it, and takes a drink from his bottle.

Will pauses, his quill hovering over the parchment. He notes the tense set of James’s shoulders and the way his fingers worry the fabric of his trousers. “This is unusual,” he states at last.

“Is it?”

“You don’t usually drink,” Will explains, cautious.

James snorts. “Can a man not do as he pleases?”

“Of course,” Will says. “Do as you like.” He tries not to bristle at the tone, and tries for levity. “Just not when you’re commanding a ship, eh?”

The smile on James’s face twists to a sour sneer. “That,” he says, “will not be a problem.” His voice is harsh as salt. “I doubt I shall set foot on a ship again.”

“What?” Will shakes his head. “What do you mean?”

“Oh,” James waves the hand holding the bottle, sending the rum sloshing, “I hardly think the Navy will continue to employ a murderer.” He looks at Will’s face, sees whatever expression is there, and blinks away.

“You’re not a murderer,” Will says. He fights to control his expression. “You’re _not,_ surely!”

Another long drink of the rum. It’s a large bottle, and it’s almost empty. “I’m as good as,” James tells him.

Will sputters for a moment, then leaves his satchel and comes around the table to sit beside James. “What are you talking about?” he demands.

“There have been many pirate attacks in the past weeks,” James says, as if he’s reciting his lessons out of a primer.

“Yes, I know.”

“When we captured the crew of the _Poseidon’s Pride,”_ James continues, still in that dull voice, “almost ten months ago, if you remember, we hanged them to a man. It was all very legal; we brought them to court in Montserrat.” He sighs. “It appears some of the mongrels’ _brethren_ have taken issue with the justice that was dealt and are conducting their current mayhem in retribution.”

“But…” Now it’s Will’s turn to frown. “I don’t see how this makes you a murd—”

“Because I gave the orders!” James shouts, an explosion of sound that makes Will flinch, closely followed by the shattering of glass as he throws the bottle at the wall. The small amount of rum inside leaves a wet mark on the wood. “I gave the orders to fight, and to bring them to Montserrat, and to return to Port Royal immediately. It was my actions that sparked this—this—this bloodiness, and—”

“You mustn’t believe that,” Will says. He aches to move closer but is kept at a distance by the tremor in James’s voice, the clench of his fists. “Surely—surely,” he says, at a loss, “you don’t believe it.”

“Why not?” He doesn’t snap it out, quieter again now, but there is a bitter edge to the words. “We received news—just this morning,” he says. He swallows and looks at his hand, as if wondering where his drink has gone. “Port Maria has been attacked.”

“Port Maria?” Will repeats. “Isn’t that where the _Dauntless—?”_

James inclines his head. “She was captured,” he says, his voice flat and dead, “and her crew slaughtered to a man.”

For the first time, Will is truly speechless. He feels utterly powerless against the despair in James’s every breath, and what’s worse, a similar feeling is beginning to gnaw on his own mind. Port Maria is only on the other side of the island—a big island, but still much too close for comfort. He bites his lip and forces himself to speak. “It isn’t your fault.”

“Stop _saying_ that,” James says. He’s almost silent now, and his fingers tremble as he puts his face in his hands.

Will reaches out, hesitant, then closes the distance between them to grip James’s shoulder. He feels James take a deep breath. “You weren’t to know,” he insists, his own voice hoarse. Beneath his hand, James heaves a dreadful, shuddering sigh.

The next evening, James visits again as usual. There is no sign of drink on him, but Will pauses on the verge of approaching him, uncertain of what will be too familiar, and what too cold.

“I want to apologize,” James says, saving him the trouble. “I behaved most improperly yesterday.”

Will blinks at him. “If I had received news such as you did, it’s hard to imagine I would have acted any differently.”

James laughs once, without humor, without much of anything. “That’s a very kind thing to say.”

“It’s the truth,” Will replies.

James doesn’t appear convinced. There’s silence as Will continues to twist gold wires for the inlay on a rifle, and James watches, fingering the cuff of his uniform.

At last, Will looks up. “Is everything all right?” He winces. It was a foolish question, and James doesn’t dignify it with an answer, merely regarding him from a few feet away. “I mean,” he stumbles, “is there something you aren’t telling me?”

Several seconds pass, until James says, “Why would you ask that?”

“Why?” Will looks at his hands, still busy with the wires, to avoid looking James in the eye. “We have been—friends—for a long while now, and I—I flatter myself that I know you rather well.” He keeps his eyes down, not wanting to see what James thinks of this assertion. “And as such, it seems to me that you are—that you have not—that you are concealing something.” He lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. He looks up.

James is examining his fingernails, his face hidden. When he finally meets Will’s eyes, his expression is carefully controlled, but at the edges of the mask, Will thinks he can see whatever it is that James is trying to hide, just barely out of sight. His heart leaps into his throat—but James’s voice is cold. “I’m sure you do not tell me every last one of your thoughts.” He gives a chilly smile that clashes with the turmoil in his eyes. “I beg your leave to do the same.”

Will opens his mouth in surprise, but nothing comes out. He resists the urge to look at his wire, fighting away the heat rushing to his cheeks. James colors but says nothing, simply turns on his heel and makes for the door. Will springs into action and catches him by the wrist before he’s gone more than three paces. “Wait,” he says. It comes out as a gasp. He has the sense that if James walks out now, he will never come back. “I’m sorry for prying.”

James turns.

Will looks into his eyes, then nearly recoils from the gaze leveled at him, but sets his teeth and plows on. “You seemed last night, and seem now, distraught. I was—concerned. For you.” James says nothing, and Will swallows. “Have you—anyone else to whom you could speak about this?”

For a moment, James is silent, then—“You wish for me to go?”

It’s such a ridiculous conclusion, and so monstrously the opposite of the truth, that Will can only gape. He wants to say something, but he can make no sound, nor think of any words to encompass the strength with which he wishes for James to _stay._ And he feels James beginning to pull away. So he moves forward, all his blood afire, and presses his lips to James’s.

It cannot properly be called a kiss, Will thinks, for all that he wishes it to be; he is terrified and sure in equal measure, and his hands shake, and his pulse roars loud as the sea in his ears.

No more than a few seconds pass before James breaks away. He yanks his arm from Will’s grasp and stares at him, his mouth half open, his eyes burning, his face laid bare and pale as bone.

Will is as shocked at himself as James looks, but he can’t talk past the painful hammering of his heart. Words appear to have failed James as well, who looks at him and looks at him, iron, endless, inscrutable. Whatever wildness is in his expression is beyond Will’s power to interpret. Then, as he watches, James stumbles backward, tears his gaze away, and fumbles his way out of the door. Will flinches at the noise as it bangs shut behind him.


	5. Corps-à-corps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Corps-à-corps: two fencers’ bodies or hilts coming into contact with each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter constitutes my July update, and I'll be out of town until August 28th with an uncertain internet connection and a massive time commitment. So unless a miracle happens and I manage to scrape together another chapter in the next 3.5 days, I'll see you all in September!
> 
> That said, I'll still probably be able to respond to comments, so drop me a line if you feel like it :)

When Will was ten years old, the sea-sickness wrapped its fingers around his mother’s throat and squeezed. The illness took its name from the sound it made in its victims chests, a rushing gasp as of waves in the lungs, and the tears that streamed, salty as brine, down their cheeks. But Will remembers none of that, though it certainly must have happened, the wheezing and the crying. All that remains in his mind is a single moment: the curve of his mother’s sadly smiling mouth when she said his name, and the waning light in her eyes. Not the sound of her voice or the touch of her hand or the smell of her hair. Only the last time she looked at him, the way he knew that everything was about to change.

He finds, now, that his kiss with James is the same. He doesn’t remember how he stood or if he spoke or even, cruelly, the feel of James’s lips against his. Those wonderful, terrible moments have shrunk to the press of his hand on James’s wrist, feeling both their pulses pounding together, in a brief and glorious harmony.

Even with that dearth of detail, Will worries his thoughts raw reliving their shared heartbeat, turning it over and over in his mind. By the time the sky blazes again to life, he feels as if all his innards have rearranged themselves into a knot. Each new contemplation of the incident tangles them more inextricably.

It was a foolish act: of this he is convinced. It was born of equal parts desperation and desperate longing, but Will is well aware that it was entirely improper, in every way ill-advised. A grave mistake. He does not know which is worse: that he kissed James, or that James left immediately—with that terrible look on his face. Nor does he know if he would rather James had shouted or hit him, or taken up a sword and run him through. All he knows is that he should not have done it. That, despite the tide-like pull between them, it is possible that Will has witnessed its end.

So he resolves with the sunrise to find James and set things right. How exactly he will do this, he can’t say, but he is spared immediate action by a sudden influx of customers. For the next two days, Will scarcely has time to sleep, let alone confront the consequences of his awful misdeed. His only comfort is that no armed men appear to clap him in irons; if James has told anyone, which is unlikely, then word has not traveled far. But then it is Sunday, and he has no work. He goes to the Navy barracks when he can stand to wait no longer.

When he asks to see Lieutenant Norrington, the serving boy looks at him with wide eyes, as if he doubts Will’s intelligence. “He’s gone,” he says.

“Gone,” Will repeats. “Where?”

“To sea,” the boy says unhelpfully. “To bring the pirates to justice,” he adds, when Will shows no sign of disappearing, and, dubiously, “sir.”

Will stares for a moment. “Port Maria,” he says at last.

It’s only half a question, but the boy nods. “They left two days ago.”

Will thanks him, turns, and walks he knows not where. He has nowhere to go that is not tainted by some memory or other, unless it be the open ocean. When he next notices his surroundings, he is on the walk above the walls of he fort, the wind and waves crashing tumultuously in his ears.

He leans on the rail. This is where he walked with Elizabeth, who now will not speak to him. This is where he knew that James loved him—James, who two days ago sailed away from him into this very horizon and was glad, perhaps, of the distance.

Over the next several days Will learns quite thoroughly the extent to which James has become embedded in his life. He had thought he’d understood the magnitude with each time James stepped away, became once again reserved—the salty, bitter sting of it. But now the tang in his throat is acrid and makes him burn someplace deeper with every evening that he spends alone.

He throws himself into his work with a fury that is surprising even to himself. But for once in his life, the heat of the forge and the ache in his muscles does nothing to drive away his demons—he feels as if each hammer-blow lands on his own flesh.

Despite the new volume of commissions, he can’t help returning in his mind to the final piece of James’s order, placed so many months ago. It’s a simple sword, nothing special, certainly not worth the amount of time he has waited to start working on it. And the thought of beginning now is upsetting—who knows if James will even want anything that Will has made, when he returns, if he returns?—but the prospect of leaving this small detail unfinished seems like the worst sort of cowardice.

So he begins to work, though the internal arguing doesn’t cease when his indecision does. Before long, however, the weapon takes shape. It is beautiful; Will thinks it might be among the finest he has ever made. He isn’t sure whether or not this thought brings him any joy.

The process of fitting the guard and pommel to the tang of the blade is a long and arduous one. Aching from the hours already spent in deep concentration, Will leaves his tools and stretches his muscles. He takes a look at the design he has sketched on a scrap of parchment and compares it to his work. The smithy is sweltering in the Caribbean afternoon and the heat from the forge. Since he isn’t handling the hot metal at the moment, Will strips off his soaked tunic; there’s little enough breeze, but he’s glad just to rest.

Until he hears the scream.

He barely has time to register the noise before he hears another, closer, and another, farther away again. Beyond that, there is the sound of many feet, and from the fort, gunfire. All of it pours suddenly into Will’s ears which have been deafened by the monotony of the forge—he hears it all at once, and wonders how he could have missed it. He crosses quickly to the door and looks cautiously outside.

The small alley is deserted, but running footsteps pound the dust nearby. Will hurries around the corner and seizes the elbow of the youth dashing past. “What’s happening?”

“Pirates,” gasps the boy, “anchored—” And he wrenches free, sprinting off and disappearing from sight as if by magic.  
A hot, mind-clouding fear floods every molecule of Will’s being. The only thought he can muster is nothing more than instinct— _get back to the smithy._ It is, at the moment, safety. He wheels around and tears back around the corner, up the narrow lane, over the threshold—slams the door—bolts it. He leans his forehead against the wood with his eyes shut tight, doing his best not to let the fear get the better of him.

“Turn around slow,” says a voice, “we don’t want any trouble.”

The air leaves Will’s lungs. He turns slowly, as directed, and sees three grimy men in tattered clothes. Beneath the muck, it’s clear that they are lean and strong—and determined. All three are holding swords, which are pointed directly at him. Will recognizes the blades as his own.

“You stay where you are,” says the man in the middle, who seems to be the leader. “My boys are going to take what we’ve come for, and then we’ll be on our way.”

Will swallows and, before he can stop himself, nods. The fevered panic is ebbing away now, and slowly being replaced by an icy terror, seeping beneath his skin. He watches mutely as the two others begin to gather blades—swords, daggers, hooks, anything they can reach. They empty the sacks of sand that hang from the rafters and put the weapons, and their sheathes, into the sacks. “Please—” Will coughs, his throat dry, and the man with his sword still trained on him hefts it threateningly. “Please,” he repeats, but can’t find words for what he’s asking.

“Got any pistols?” barks one of the men with the sacks. “Rifles, bayonets?”

Struck with a sudden, mad idea, Will nods.

“Where?”

Will casts his eyes around the shop. “Over there,” he says, inclining his head vaguely. When the man moves over to that corner, Will says, “No, _here—”_ and steps forward cautiously. The man guarding him makes a noise of warning, but seems content to let him move a few paces.

That’s enough for Will, who seizes the first sword he can reach—the one for James, lying alone on a trestle away from the others, missed by the pirates.

“Put that down,” says the leader. “Nobody needs to get hurt here.”

But Will can’t stand the sight of them taking what he’s made, what he’s worked so hard on, what he has toiled over for so many months and years. He clutches the hilt, his hand slick with sweat. His every heartbeat throbs in his ears and he is very aware of the fact that he’s still not wearing a tunic. “Put down the weapons,” he rasps, hoping he doesn’t sound as frightened as he is. “The guards are on their way.”

The leader motions for the other two to continue with their ransacking, and they do, though more slowly now. They watch as the leader looks long and hard at Will. “Are they, now?” He glances around the shadowy smithy, the expression on his face impossible to read. “So what’s to stop me from just killing you quick?”

Will stares, his head entirely empty, and does the only thing he can: swings his sword.

The two men utter startled cries and move forward, but before they’ve gone two paces, the sound of metal on metal rings through the air. A jarring impact travels up Will’s arm and he realizes, a second after the fact, that the leader has blocked his blow.

“Leave it,” says the man.

Will isn’t sure if he’s talking to him or to the other men. He takes advantage of the momentary distraction, slight as it is, to aim another blow, only for it to be blocked, too, again with a loud _clang._ Will may not be an expert swordsman, but he knows that such a sound means trouble; he’s repaired enough notched and dinted blades to recognize how the damage is done. As they trade strikes, the ringing continues, and Will understands what the man is doing: he’s angling his sword so that each cut lands on the edge of Will’s sword, mangling the metal.

But he can’t save the sword without opening himself up to attack. His only hope is to end the fight quickly before it’s ruined further. So Will gathers his wits and feints, aiming low, then arcing high—and it works too well. A sharp sting over his ribs tells him a blow has been landed, and then, impossibly, the leader whips his blade back up to block Will’s downward cut with such force that Will feels the hilt wrench in his hand.

Will manages miraculously to keep his grip on the sword as the leader slides his own so that they are body to body, the swords locked between them. Then the man gives Will a shove, and he stumbles backward, landing sprawled on the dusty ground.

The leader kicks the sword from his hand and picks it up. He surveys Will with more irritation than malice. “I told you to leave it,” he says. “Now I’ve ruined your fine sword, and for what?” His gaze falls on the parchment with the blade’s design, and Will sees his eyes move, scanning the words there. “Lieutenant James Norrington—this is for him?”

There is no weapon in reach now, he is bleeding rather freely from a long gash low on his chest, and nearly all of his pieces have been removed from their racks around the shop. His breathing shallow, Will nods.

“You’ve been wasting your sweat,” the man tells him. “The last we saw of him, his ship was disappearing into the mist, listing bad to port. Captain dead, crew fair to scattered.”

The pain in Will’s flesh diminishes under a wave of horror so profound that for a moment, he no longer sees the man standing in front of him; he is not in the smithy, he is not anywhere. And yet— _pirates are liars,_ his father always told him, and there’s no reason to believe this one. He shoves the despair to one side with a colossal effort. “They gave as good as they got,” he snarls, “if you need to steal from me to replace what you’ve lost.”

“Aye,” says the pirate, “I’ll not deny it.” He lifts his arm to display a stained bandage on his side. “He dealt a mighty blow. With this sword, he’d have been nigh unstoppable.” The man casts a glance back at his companions. “As for the stealing—don’t take offense, boy. We’d have tried the Navy yard first, only we didn’t fancy being run through.”

Without an apparent signal, the other two move toward the door and go out. The leader points the deformed sword at Will, still on the ground, hardly daring to breathe. “My thanks,” he says with a small, knowing smile, “and I wish you a good turn in payment.” He looks at the blade, taking in the nicks and craters, and lays it back on the trestle before following his men out the door.

For uncounted seconds, Will is frozen, his every heartbeat a spike of pain and each breath sharp in his lungs. Then he scrambles to his feet and hurtles out of the smithy. The pirates, of course, have vanished, but Will careens down the deserted streets—the frightened townspeople, he knows, have barricaded themselves in their homes—in the direction of the fort. He does not have a plan in mind.

It turns out to be of little consequence. He meets what appears to be an enough soldiers to crew an entire fleet hurrying back through the town. The commander leading them takes one look at Will and barks, “Where are they?”

“I don’t know,” Will gasps, badly out of breath now that he’s stopped for a moment. “There were three—in the smithy—but they left—made for the harbor, I think—”

“Turn about! They’ve circled ‘round!” cries the officer, and the entire group races off back the way they came.

“They’re armed!” Will shouts after them, and tries briefly to keep pace, but he still isn’t wearing a tunic and realizes that in his rush to give chase, he forgot to take a weapon with him. He coughs in the dust raised by the soldiers’ feet and limps back to the smithy.

Despite the glow of the forge, the place looks much darker than usual without the glint of metal from the walls. There are still nails, pitchforks, hooks, a good deal of raw iron—but nearly all the blades have been taken. The sole remaining proof that they were ever there rests on the trestle.

Will retrieves James’s sword and runs his fingers over the metal. The dents and gouges in the edge are deep and difficult to repair, but Will believes he could have managed it. The hilt, though—the guard was never fully attached, and now the pirate’s steely block has twisted it into a misshapen knob. The sword is ruined, utterly worthless.

A spatter of blood drips onto the metal, and suddenly Will is aware of his wound—it isn’t deep, but it stings with a fiery pain that cuts straight through him. He realizes that his hands are shaking and carefully replaces the sword on the trestle.

The next several days are a jumble of confusion that sends half of Port Royal into disarray. No one can offer any evidence for or against the pirate’s story of what happened to the _Interceptor,_ though Will is not the only one to have heard it. Neither is Will the only craftsman to have been accosted by the pirates, though his business is among the most sorely impaired by the event. He can’t immediately begin the monumental task of remaking the pieces with his chest torn open, so he joins the throng of shopkeepers clamoring for redress at the gates of the governor’s mansion. He stays quiet, mostly, watching, some small part of him hoping, senselessly, to catch a glimpse of Elizabeth, who has continued to avoid him.

He does not see her. He does, however, witness Brown making a spectacle of himself, shoving to the front of the crowd and bellowing for compensation until the butler comes out to remove him, when he begins to insert a few accurate but unhelpful obscenities between his demands. At this point, Will hauls his master away amid gales of laughter that are directed as much at the pair of them as at the butler and the house he serves.

Then, making his way back from an unsuccessful plea for sand from the glassblower, stepping around a pair of arguing merchants, he walks into someone. “Sorry,” he murmurs, his eyes on the ground—he notices skirts, then, and glances up.

Elizabeth gazes back.

Will feels himself go scarlet with shock, and to his horror, the attendant ladies begin to giggle at his reaction. He watches, dumb, as Elizabeth throws a glance to each side and masks her own startled expression in a smirk. With only a moment’s hesitation, she and the other ladies sweep by.

“Wait,” Will says, turning and reaching for her hand. He can’t say for sure what possesses him to do it, only that he is so very weary and cannot bear to lose her, too.

Elizabeth smoothes her skirts with the hand he’d reached for, a gesture that at once renders his sudden motion invisible and carefully removes her from his reach. It seems both merciful and cold. “Yes?” she says.

Now his boldness is catching up to Will’s thoughts, and he stammers, “I—may I speak with you?”

“What do you call this,” Elizabeth asks him, “if not speaking?”

The ladies titter, and Will scrambles for a response. Nothing comes to mind. He manages a smile, which he’s sure appears more like a grimace, and bows. “Begging your pardon, my lady.”

Will makes his escape and hurries on back to the smithy. He wishes he could say he’d been possessed by some malevolent and highly humiliating spirit, but that’s not the case: he knows it was his own foolishness, his own brash desire for company, that made him act at such an inopportune moment. And he wishes that he could wonder honestly about Elizabeth’s contemptuous response, but that, too, is impossible. He remembers his harsh words when they spoke in the smithy and knows he is paying the price; she has every right to say these things to him and worse. It does not lessen the sting.

 

**1736**

 

Slowly, Will grinds into action again; there is nothing to be gained from idleness, and he welcomes the distraction that work provides. He doesn’t see Elizabeth again, nor does he seek her out, and though more ships return to harbor each week, no word comes from the _Interceptor._ Will focuses on each moment as it comes and does his best not to dwell on the past—which results in nights like this one, where his eyes itch with sleep and unwanted thoughts press heavy against his skull.

The forge is cold and Will sits by the light of a single candle, inking the day’s business into his ledger. The flame flickers eerily over the table, and in the long, vague shadows that it casts, Will pauses. Footsteps, from the street outside?

He shakes himself and sets his pen again to the parchment. The night has never held many terrors for him, but since the pirate attack, it’s seemed to hold the promise of more than a few. But it’s only nerves; that’s all it is, and he frowns at the sums shining black in the dim light, willing himself to concentrate.

A moment later, he starts massively at the sound of someone knocking on the door and nearly upsets his ink bottle. It must be after midnight. Who could possibly be calling at this hour? And why would they think to find the blacksmith awake?

But he _is_ awake, so Will gets to his feet holding the candle, his heart knocking unevenly against the keel of his ribs. “One moment,” he says, and pulls the door open.

The first thing he sees is a glint of metal, and thinks wildly that he ought to have come to the door armed. But the gleam is only his own candlelight on brass and silver fastenings, the buttons and pins and ornate trim of a Royal Navy uniform: Will’s gaze flicks higher, and he discovers that James is standing before him, eyes dark as the moonless sky above.

Will can do nothing but stare. It must have been the _Interceptor_ who docked that morning… This is not the first time that James has come straight to Will’s door after returning to Port Royal… He is not wounded, though his uniform is worn, and his face is merely drawn, not gaunt. The thoughts chase each other sluggishly through his mind, each coming several seconds after the first so that he loses track of how long he stands there gaping.

It’s James who breaks the silence. “Might I come in?” he asks.

Will experiences a vivid flash of memory: James asking the same question over a year ago, peering out from beneath a solid coating of mud. As before, Will clears his mind with some effort and nods. “By all means,” he murmurs, and stands aside.

They stand slightly apart after Will shuts the door, the candle providing the only illumination. Will watches James gaze at the small flame, then open his mouth and look at Will; Will looks quickly away. “I know it’s very late,” James says, not quite stiff, not quite honest. “I—I hope I’m not disturbing—the journey, you know, one loses track of time—you must be tired. I ought—probably—to have waited. If you’d prefer, I can return tomorrow—”

“Don’t,” Will says. All the uncertainty and anguish that had been driven out by his losses at the hands of the pirates come rushing suddenly back into his mind, and all at once he can’t stand to listen to James apologize as if this were nothing more than a meeting to discuss prices. As if the lateness of the hour were the only thing filling the space between them.

James stops talking. Stealing another glance, Will sees that he’s slightly flushed, but still looking straight at Will. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, “but it is rather difficult to know where to begin.”

Will chews on the inside of his cheek. “Why—” He stops and swallows. “Why are you here?” It’s not a fair question but he can’t think of a better way to ask, since everything inside him is clamoring too loudly for coherency.

James’s mouth twitches, almost as if he were about to smile, but his eyes are thoughtful. “When last we spoke,” he says, hesitant, “my wits were—quite scattered. And we set sail before I had gathered them again.” He does not turn his gaze. “Since then I have had a great deal of time to think about—what transpired.”

“What transpired?” Will repeats.

There is a moment’s pause. “You kissed me,” James says, matter-of-fact, ever so calmly.

“Oh,” says Will, and it’s more of a sigh than a word. His breath blows the candle out and they are left in sudden, pressing darkness, through which only the barest traces are visible. “The light,” Will says, “let me—”

A hand covers his as he reaches for his empty pocket. “Don’t,” James whispers. He has moved closer, close enough for Will to hear his suddenly shallow breath.

Will, for his part, can hardly breathe at all. His heart is pounding so hard that it hurts and he wonders if James can hear that, too. “What?”

“Don’t light it again,” James tells him, “it’s better in the dark.”

Will is faintly surprised to find that he agrees.Without being able to see his face, he doesn’t feel the overwhelming panic that threatened to engulf him the last time they stood this close together. That doesn’t mean he isn’t afraid: his mouth is dry as he nods, unable to speak.

James’s hand is still on his. His fingers move over Will’s, slowly threading them together.

“What are you doing?” Will whispers. He feels the ghost of air between them.

“I don’t know,” James admits. They are standing so close now that his breath tickles Will’s cheek, so close that Will can feel the heat of James’s body on his own skin. So close that Will does not immediately notice when James rests his other hand on Will’s neck, his thumb along Will’s jaw.

So close that as James—slowly, slowly—bends his head, Will scarcely has time to draw breath before there is no space between them at all. James’s mouth is soft on his own, almost too soft to be felt. His hands are gentle. Yet in the matching of their pulses, Will feels a wonderful, aching, iron conviction.

Even as he thinks it, James smiles against his mouth. “This is madness,” he breathes, his voice trembling soundlessly.

Heady disbelief overwhelms Will for a moment. “I know.” Yet here they are.

“Madness,” James repeats, and in the same breath, he reaches for Will again, kisses him, whispers his name in the dark.


	6. Moulinet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moulinet: a flashy and impressive circular cut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very surprised that I managed to pound out a chapter while working more or less 24/7 in a foreign language, but that means that there are almost definitely a few silly typos that I haven't caught yet. Let me know if you spot any!

There is a curious, boundless happiness that Will has always associated with the sound of gulls and a blue horizon. He sits with James beside him, the world silent, the sky and ocean a deep, dark indigo, and feels the same trembling joy—too big for his chest, so that his throat is stopped with it and his lungs are starved for air.

“I thought you would be safe,” James says, a crease between his brows, “if you were here. I knew—with Porta Maria, I knew there was a risk, but I didn’t truly believe it.”

Remembering his heart-stopping fear, Will understands. “But I’m fine,” he says, and mostly means it.

James nods, then pauses and does a double-take to look around the smithy. They have been long enough in the dark that they both can see the walls clearly without having to squint. “Am I imagining this,” he says, “or is it emptier here than usual?”

It’s true: the walls are still mostly bare. Will looks at the lack of metal and sighs. “One of the losses suffered at the hands of the pirates was the majority of my weapons stores.” He raises his eyebrows at James’s wide-eyed indignation. “I was robbed by pirates. It’s not exactly out of character.”

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” James asks.

Will snorts. “You’ve only been here a few hours,” he reminds him. But he understands this, too; the night seems to stretch between them like children’s taffy with just the same sweetness. “And it’s only the weapons. I still have pitchforks.”

James laughs. “I’ve seen you handle those before, and trust me, it’s not comforting.”

“It’s not as if they’re awfully urgently needed, are they?” Will tries and fails to maintain a dignified expression. “Not with the Navy yard so close.”

“You never know,” James says, suddenly sounding a good deal more subdued. But he doesn’t elaborate, simply pulls Will close and kisses him softly. Then, again, he pauses. “Are there _bandages_ under your tunic?”

In lieu of answering immediately, Will peeks over the windowsill under the pretense of checking the sky. The clouds are tipped in lavender now. When he sits against the wall again, however, he sees that James is not fooled. “It’s not so bad,” he says, but he can feel James’s fingers still tracing the faint shapes of the dressing through the fabric of his shirt. “I mean,” he amends, “I can work again now. It’s much improved.”

“You haven’t been working?”

“Not on anything larger than spades,” Will admits. “Of course, I can’t do much else in any case, seeing as it’s impossible to get funds without—” He breaks off before his voice rises above a whisper.

“This is ridiculous,” James says. They are leaning so close that his breath brushes Will’s ear.

Will sighs. “They ruined your sword, too,” he says, because he might as well bare his shame properly.

“Hush,” James says, and kisses him again, and Will discovers that it doesn’t feel like shame at all.

When they break apart, Will rests his forehead against James’s. So near to each other, he feels utterly at peace—almost. For all that he is warm, a small thought tugs at his mind. “What did you mean,” he says, _”you never know?_ About needing weapons.”

Almost too faint to be noticed, James misses a breath. “I didn’t mean anything.” It sounds so much like a lie that Will doesn’t even have to say anything; James sighs as soon as Will opens his mouth for the accusation. “It’s simply,” he says, and hesitates. “It’s not simple.”

“What isn’t simple?”

James leans back slightly and shakes his head. His face, Will notices suddenly, is paler than usual. “We are going to need your swords,” he says in a taut voice.

“What happened?” Will asks in the new space between them, tinted faint blue and pink by the early morning sun.

“On the _Interceptor?”_ James asks, as if he dreads it.

By way of answer, Will says, “I thought you were dead.” The words taste cold, but because they are so close, it doesn’t hurt as much as he expects.

James breathes out long and slow. “You were nearly right,” he says. He shifts to lean more comfortably against the wall, and though Will, too, is stiff from sitting on the hard ground till dawn, he sees the way James gazes unseeing and suspects that there is something more.

“What happened?” he asks again, after several long heartbeats go by without a word.

“We were attacked,” James says, “that much you surely know.” He looks at Will for confirmation, then goes back to watching the slow crawl of light across the opposite wall. “There was barely time to know what was happening and by the time we rallied, we were taking on water and most of our black powder was ruined.” He shrugs. “We did the only thing we could think of.”

Will notices that James’s fingers are trembling minutely and reaches out to take his hand. “What?”

James gives him a very small smile. “We boarded their ship,” he says. “They were close enough, and so sure of their surprise that they didn’t expect it. All the same,” he sighs, “I wish we hadn’t.”

“Why not?” Will demands. “What else could you have done?”

“We could have run.” James nods, as if to himself, not looking at Will. “We could have turned into the wind and sailed out of range, and they would have let us. We could—we _should_ have just let the wind take us over the horizon.”

The last time James spoke of the horrors he had seen at sea, Will remembers that his voice was dull, toneless, as if someone else were speaking from his mouth. Now, however, he merely sounds lost. “What happened?” Will asks for the third time, as gently as he can.

As he speaks, James extends Will’s hand in his own and uses his fingers to slowly trace the tendons from wrist to knuckle. “We boarded. All of our crew who weren’t needed to keep us afloat. For a time it seemed we might win, we had the advantage of numbers and surprise—but I have never seen a ship with so many blades.” He switches to drawing lines down Will’s fingers. “It was like reaching into a nest of hornets. Everywhere, something sharp. We took what we could and threw it overboard, but it was endless.”

“Were you hurt?”

James nods without looking up. “First on my shoulder, and then on both arms, though none of it was very grave. I was very lucky. We lost seventeen men, nearly half of our crew, and there were no orders—chaos, and everyone screaming—” James breaks off, swallows, and continues in an even tone. “When it became clear that we would be overcome, I gave the order to return to the _Interceptor._ They listened to me. We managed it, but of course we couldn’t give chase, and soon the mist clouded our vision and we lost them.” He shakes his head. “I remember realizing why they let us go—because they did, you know. They could have killed us all. They didn’t.”

Will’s mouth is dry. “Why not?” he asks.

“Because we were as good as dead.” James turns Will’s hand over and traces the lines on his palm. His eyes, focused on his task, are shuttered. “Our captain was gone and our ship was sitting low in the water. By the grace of God, we survived, but it was beyond anything we had reason to hope for.” He pauses. “Have you ever been surprised to see a familiar sunrise again?”

Will hasn’t—but he remembers being surprised, once upon a time, to see anything at all, to hear voices again after the roar of the battle and the deep black sea. “I think perhaps I have,” he says. James is still gazing downward as if he sees the sharp gleam of swords, so Will says, “I’m glad you made it back.” It seems too obvious to say, but he thinks perhaps it’s necessary.

“So am I,” says James softly, barely more than a whisper. He doesn’t look up, but he places his open palm against Will’s so that they match, wrist to wrist and fingertip to fingertip.

Two days later, Brown, who has been uncharacteristically sober since the embarrassment in front of the governor’s mansion, is invited to speak with the governor himself. He sets off in a hitherto-unseen spotless waistcoat looking pale beneath the lack of drink, and Will worries for a quarter hour that the invitation is less a request than a demand, and that the speaking is less a conversation than a one-sided dismissal—until he glances out the window and does a double-take: James is walking up the street.

He waits at the door and lets him in before he has a chance to knock. The sight of James in the smithy, which is shadowy but for the strong, white shaft of sunlight in which he stands, is not new, but nevertheless Will feels a fierce joy that he is here. For the first time, however, he also feels a spark of danger, and resists the urge to bolt the door behind James. “I ought to have known,” he says.

James grins wide at him, blinding as the sunlight. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t fool me,” Will says, grinning back in spite of himself. “How many people did you have to go through to get Brown that audience?”

For a moment, it looks as if James will deny it, but then he pulls on his lapels in a satisfied way. “Only a few.”

Will snorts. “You’re incorrigible.” He leads James into the shadows, away from the windows, small as they are, and winds their fingers together. “So who should I truly be thanking?”

James raises their joined hands and kisses Will’s knuckles. “Miss Swann.”

“Elizabeth?” Will says without thinking. His voice comes out sharper than it should.

“Do you know another?” A second late, James registers his tone and frowns. “What’s wrong?”

An uncomfortable mixture of frustration and shame has sprung up in Will at Elizabeth’s name, and he shrugs. “Nothing, it’s—we’ve—we had a disagreement.” It is painful, too, to remember the aftermath, with James’s coldness and the distance between them, particularly when they are now standing so close. Will makes an effort not to let it show on his face. “It was my fault. I was—unfair.”

To his relief, James doesn’t ask why. “That’s odd,” he says, still frowning. “She didn’t act slighted in the least. She was quite adamant that I speak to her father on your behalf.”

“Her father?” Will repeats. “Why?”

A small smile now plays around James’s mouth. “If I convinced him of the Navy’s need for a greater weapons store, then he would address the matter of your compensation—or rather, Mr. Brown’s—with more haste. Her plan hinged on convincing me in turn that you were worth helping.” James’s smile grows. “She didn’t have to argue for very long.”

Something blooms at the top of Will’s chest, something warm and good, and it makes him chuckle. “So were you acting on Miss Swann’s initiative or your own?”

“I like to think we acted in concert,” James says. “In any case, by the end of the week the entire affair ought to be dealt with.”

“And if no more pirates drop anchor,” Will says, “you won’t have to go through this trouble again.”

“Trouble?” James scoffs. “I believe this is called a labor of love.”

When Brown returns, he bears a missive from the governor granting enough gold to cover half of what was stolen, and though he immediately disappears with a celebratory bottle of rum, Will’s spirits aren’t dampened. He sets about dividing the sum by necessity—counting the cost of James’s ruined sword. For the next week, he chases merchants to and fro through Port Royal and haggles over prices, hoping against hope that the funds will stretch far enough.

They do not. Luckily, however, news of the turn in Will’s fortune spreads quickly, and he begins to receive orders for swords again, and with them, advance payments. He works each day from dawn until the early hours of the next morning, such that the forge barely cools and he finds it simpler, at times, to sleep in the smithy rather than his own quarters.

James finds him there on the eighth day with his cheek pressed flat against the parchment and a quill still in his hand: Will wakes with a start to him sitting down quietly on the bench beside him. “Do you intend to work yourself to death?” James asks, half-smiling.

The light of the single candle, burned low and sputtering in its pool of wax, throws live shadows over the two of them. “I was waiting for you,” Will says.

With a look of surprise, James asks, “Do you do this every night?” He sounds amazed and disapproving at the same time.

Will struggles to find the right words. “After a fashion,” he says at last. How can he explain, he wonders, how long he has already waited? That after the months of yearning, he expects he would wait for James even when there was no hope of fulfillment?

Though he still sounds pleased, James doesn’t look it. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” he says. He looks down at the lists and calculations on the parchment and frowns. “I don’t mean just waiting up. I mean—well, imagine if this”—he waves a hand at Will, at himself, at the darkness—“falls apart.”

“What do you mean?” Will asks, trying not to speak too quickly and to ignore the quiver of unease in his stomach. “Why would it fall apart?”

“I mean,” James says again, and hesitates. “I mean if it’s destroyed.” He blinks up, meets Will’s eyes: his gaze is black as pitch and holds Will just as fast. “You know what could happen.”

For a moment, Will wants to say that he doesn’t know, wants to pretend that they can live in blinding afternoons and clear midnights forever. But there is bitterness beneath his tongue and it mars the sweetness of the moment so that he has to look away. He does know what could happen. The sea could take one or both of them, or pestilence, or the sharp end of a sword—and beyond that, they might tire of secrecy and therefore of each other, or—and this trips something in Will’s mind, sends a spike of fear through him like nothing else has—they might be discovered and brought before the courts and God. Thus far, Will has managed to suspend the reality of all this, but now that he entertains the possibilities, his thoughts turn threadbare and lightning-fast with a sudden terror.

Will stares back at James and sees the same dread in his eyes. _This is madness,_ he had said—and it truly is. “I know,” Will says. Then, spurred on by something deeper than his bones, in the same place where the sea roars within him, he says, “But—”

“But what?” James prompts, and it’s the way he says it, soft and quick and hopeful, that tells Will plainly: James doesn’t give a damn.

The knowledge makes Will’s heart sing. “But I can bear it,” he says. He finds to his sudden joy that he doesn’t need to ask James if he can bear it as well, the burden of what they are to each other. If he couldn’t, he wouldn’t be here.

And if that weren’t enough, the grin that breaks across James’s face would serve well as proof. He smiles so widely that he looks away for just a moment and presses his hand against his mouth, the way he did in the beginning when he stood stiff and kept his distance. But when he takes his hand away, the smile is still there, though smaller. He flushes when he glances back at Will.

“What?” Will asks, smiling back.

James shakes his head. “I didn’t expect to be so glad today,” he murmurs.

There is a strange conflict playing out across James’s features, both joyful and troubled, and Will has the sense that though he is, as he says, glad, he is more deeply distressed than he is willing to show. “Something’s wrong,” he says, and the way James keeps his eyes on the parchment is more of an answer than if he had spoken aloud. “Tell me.”

Chuckling softly, James says, “Why do we always come back to this?”

“Because,” Will says lightly, “you spend too much time alone on a ship.” He doesn’t say the other thing he knows, which is that James must be picked at like a splinter in the palm before he reveals anything. “Is it terrible?”

“Well,” James says, “no, only that I am to be promoted.”

A heartbeat passes in which Will thinks he must have misheard, such is the discrepancy between James’s words and his expression. When it becomes clear that he heard correctly, his confusion only increases. “I don’t understand,” he says. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

“One would think,” James says with a trace of the smile still evident at the corner of his mouth. “It’s simply difficult to be pleased when it feels so much like a reward for the death of a fellow sailor.”

“What—?” Then, in the space between breaths, Will understands. “Your captain on the _Interceptor,”_ he says. James nods. “I’m sorry,” Will says.

James smiles thinly. “It’s a great honor,” he says. “Truly. They say I’m first in the Navy to reach the rank of Commander at so young an age.”

Torn between sympathy and pride, Will is speechless. It is too much in too short a time, he thinks, for both of them, and for him to know where he stands here. The ground beneath him is unsteady; he wants to reach out but his limbs are weighted with uncertainty.

The seconds stretch onward like endless, dragging waves. “It is very late,” James says at last.

“Not so very late,” Will lies. James rises from his seat, and Will is seized with a clutching fear.

Then James bends over and brushes a kiss to the top of Will’s head. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, and is gone.

Will bolts from the bench and catches James before he rounds the corner out of the alley. “Will you really come back?” he asks. It costs him something to speak the words, lurching as he is through the great chasm that still exists between their lives—try as they might to build a bridge, Will feels rocked by a sudden wind.

James looks surprised. “Of course,” he says. “You know the only reason I didn’t come was the business about this promotion, all the preparations—”

“I know,” says Will, and he does. “But will you be able to make it here? Without raising questions? You mustn’t risk your career for this—”

Now it’s James’s turn to interrupt. “For this,” he says, and his voice is quiet but firm like the roll of a wave toward the shore, “I would risk anything.” He shakes his head. “I would sail to the very end of the earth for this.”

Will swallows and tries to pretend that _for this_ means something other than _for you._ His head spins regardless. “So would I,” he says.

“Then you don’t need to ask,” James tells him, and in the quiet dark his voice is deep and all around. “You already know.”

They do not kiss, they do not move closer to each other, they do not touch. The stars and far-off lighted windows keep them apart. But in James’s eyes, Will sees that he, too, senses the gaping space between them, and is prepared to jump. And such is the comfort of their shared gaze that it hardly seems there is any distance at all.

As it happens, James is only able to visit the smithy for a few minutes, to tell Will that he won’t be able to come again until the next week. Disappointed as he is, Will is also grateful for the extra time, as there has been another summons from the governor and he frankly doesn’t trust Brown to make a favorable impression. Therefore, he keeps the letter in his waistcoat pocket and ignores the pang of anxiety as he sets forth.

The governor’s butler shows him to a parlor that Will remembers hazily from his childhood, along with stiff-backed hours spent drinking the same bitter tea that sits before him. He also remembers Elizabeth giggling at him from the plush chaise, and so experiences a moment of utter bewilderment when she appears in the doorway as if summoned by his thoughts.

“Good day,” she says after a bare second’s hesitation. Her tone is neither cold nor hesitant, but bland, as if she is still waiting to see what manner she ought to adopt.

Will lurches to his feet, also late, and sinks gratefully back down once she has taken the seat across from him. It’s a small enough room, but given the ramrod straightness of her spine and the tilt of her chin, it might be oceans wide. “Good afternoon,” he replies, and the words are lost on the air. She regards him with an impermeable expression and says nothing. “I’m—er—here to see your father.”

She smooths her skirts. “I know.”

“Er—” Will fumbles for words, uncertain, between their friendship and this conflict and the knowledge that she championed his case with James and her father, what is appropriate. “So—is he—?”

“He ought to be here shortly,” Elizabeth says. She must see his confusion, and relents ever so slightly to tell him, “It’s my pleasure to entertain guests while he is otherwise occupied.”

Will can tell that she’s trying to maintain her aloofness, but he hears quite clearly, somehow, the twist of her words towards humor and well-concealed pique. He thrills to recognize it, as if it’s still the same shared joke it was for so long. “How many stuffy aristocrats must you ordinarily host?” he asks, and only then does he stop to wonder if it’s a good idea.

Elizabeth appears taken aback at his boldness. “I don’t,” she begins, frowning, then seems to change her mind about what she wants to say. “It varies,” she amends. “Some days are busier than others. Some days,” she says, and takes a sip from her teacup, blinking down and away from him, “I have more dealings with shameless merchants.”

Biting the inside of his cheek, Will doesn’t know whether or not to laugh. “And which do you prefer,” he asks, “straight-laced nobles or—presumptuous commoners?”

She doesn’t look at him. “I haven’t decided yet.”

There’s enough encouragement in that response that Will feels it would no longer be a mistake to apologize, and thank her. He takes a breath. “Elizabeth—”

There is just time for Elizabeth’s gaze to dart to him, wide-eyed, and for Will to bite down on his own tongue at his stupidity, before the butler opens the door again and the governor enters. “Mr. Turner,” he says, “welcome.”

Still slightly muddled, Will manages to get to his feet and bow without knocking over the delicate tea table. “Thank you very much, Excellency.” He even sits down again gracefully enough, but when he glances again toward Elizabeth, she is watching her father. Disgruntled, Will does the same.

“I apologize for my tardiness,” says the governor. “All of these pirate attacks—everyone is working to better prepare the colony in the event of another. Not,” he adds with a frown, “that such an incident is expected.”

“Naturally not,” says Will, when the silence makes it clear that he’s supposed to say something.

But it seems that no one has noticed. The governor smiles pleasantly and says, “Perhaps, Elizabeth, you would like to leave us? We’ll only be talking of business matters.”

Elizabeth smiles just as amicably back and glances between him and Will, her eyes hard, at odds with her expression. “No, thank you, Father,” she says, “I think I’ll stay.”

The look on Governor Swann’s face is one of barely-concealed resignation. “As you wish,” he says. Then he turns to Will. “I invited you here first and foremost to place an order.” If he notices the surprise in Will’s expression—a personal invitation for a simple commission?—he doesn’t react. “It seems you’ve been up to your neck in work of late,” he says, “so I didn’t want to distract you from your rather essential job, but time presses on and—well—circumstances change.”

Rather perplexed, not entirely certain what these circumstances might be, Will nods.

“As I said,” continues the governor, “these skirmishes with pirates are surely nearly over. But given the recent tension, we have decided to bring forward the construction of the new gaol.”

At last, Will has an inkling of what is coming. “Ah,” he says, “do you mean—?”

The governor nods. “I have here the plans,” he says, and the butler comes forward with a thick roll of parchment. “Modeled after the architecture in London—and here, the bars. You see?” He points. While Will cranes his neck to get a good view without leaving his seat, the governor seems somewhat anxious. “Purely to put the people’s minds at ease,” Swann assures him; “nevertheless, the time has come.”

“I understand,” Will says. He sits back. “Is there a date by which I should be finished?”

“Within the next year, I should say.” The governor is still watching him closely. “I hope it’s manageable.”

From what Will could see of the plans, he should be able to complete the work within a third of that time. “I believe so,” he says slowly, wondering if there is more to this meeting than plans for the gaol. It is too brief for the ceremony that’s been afforded him, with tea in the parlor and Elizabeth here to keep him company while he waits.

And indeed, at his answer, the governor’s expression brightens and he says, “I’m very pleased to hear it! And in the future, I know the entire colony will benefit.” He signals to the butler, who begins to roll up the plans. “I wonder—might I also request a small piece for this household? With adequate compensation, naturally.”

Will privately thinks that if the state of affairs is as chaotic as it sounds, the compensation will be far from adequate—out of necessity rather than stinginess, but disappointing all the same. However, he knows when to hold his tongue, and can even muster a smile. “It would be my pleasure,” he says, because paltry payment is better than none. “In fact,” Will says, “I wanted to thank you as well. Your assistance after the pirates’ theft has been very helpful.”

“Oh!” Governor Swann shakes his head. “It’s really all due to Lieutenant Norrington, you know. He felt very strongly about the matter.”

Will sees Elizabeth smirk ever so slightly, though she’s not looking at him. Seized by a brazen desire to make the truth known, no matter how foolish it might be, he keeps his eyes on her. “Without his actions, I’d be quite badly off. He has my gratitude.” At his last words, Elizabeth looks to him again, and from the mingled irritation and surprise in her expression, he can tell she did not expect to find him looking back. He holds her gaze and says, “Please give him my thanks.”

He turns swiftly back to the governor, but not before he sees Elizabeth’s eyes widen. She says nothing—of course not—and they don’t look at each other throughout the following transaction, nor the following pleasantries and leave-taking. But as Will makes his way along the street away from the governor’s gate, the rolls of parchment under his arm, he turns on an instinct and looks back up at the mansion. There, in an upper window, he thinks he sees—but the sun glares white on the glass, and he blinks, and the moment has passed.

The day of James’s promotion ceremony dawns clear over the sparkling sea. Will spends an hour shuffling around the smithy doing small tasks, wondering whether James will visit, sure that it’s unlikely. Then he hears the drums from the fort and knows his time is up.

It’s odd, hearing the rhythm and having nothing to match it with but the beat of his own heart, too slow and too solitary. Knowing the privilege and frustration of James’s situation, Will struggles between pride and sympathy—the two are unwieldy. When he thinks of the peace it brings him to hold James’s hand, or simply to see his face, hear his voice, Will feels a sort of pitying despair, too ugly for such a beautiful day.

He’s halfway to the fort before he begins to think that it truly may not be a good idea, but by that point he presses stubbornly on until he reaches the packed-dirt grounds trodden by many polished boots. All the uniformed navy-men and the women in their fine dresses are facing away from him, watching the ceremony, and they don’t notice his approach. Will walks for a while around the back of the audience in search of a less-crowded place from which he can observe without being spotted, but the best he can find is a half-step up onto the base of a statue. It doesn’t allow him to see over the large hats—nor can he see James.

He listens hard instead, tries to envision the scene that must accompany the stamping of feet in an even pattern, the unsheathing of many swords, the fifes and drums in a lively march. He hears the officers and the governor say certain words, but what they are, Will can’t tell; the distance makes it sound as if he is underwater.

At a signal that he cannot see, the crowd begins to break up, and Will scurries away to the edge of the gathering. To his surprise, the guests don’t leave, but stand together in small groups talking of what sounds like trivial nonsense. As soon as he registers his bemusement, he has to laugh at himself. This is a different world than his, and these people have no forges to which they must return. They can afford to spend an hour or two in pleasant conversation.

Being careful not to draw attention to himself, Will skirts the scattered company in search of James. Just a glimpse, he tells himself, that’s all, and he isn’t even sure that anything more would be a good idea.

At last he catches sight of a familiar face—and just as he is certain that it is in fact James, their eyes meet. A second later, he looks away, moves off, but after a few minutes he appears again, closer.

Catching a pointed glance, Will strolls away from the crowd as casually as he can and rounds a corner. He immediately comprehends James’s plan and ducks into the arched alcove, hidden from most passers-by.

James appears in a minute or two, stepping quickly in beside Will after hastily taking one last look to make sure no one has noticed. The space is so small that they are pressed nearly chest-to-chest. “When I saw you,” he says, his voice hushed, “I couldn’t believe my eyes. What are you doing here?”

He sounds surprised, with only the barest trace of concern, but Will still searches his face for signs of distress. There are none that he can see. “I wanted to see you,” Will says. He squares his shoulders, feeling vulnerable in a way he didn’t quite expect. He tries for humor. “Unfortunately, I didn’t dare get too close, so I couldn’t see you at all.”

“Here I am now,” James says, the hint of a laugh in his voice. He spreads his arms ever so slightly. “How is it?”

“Splendid,” Will replies. It’s not an exaggeration. The clean cut of the coat across his shoulders, the bright shine of new buttons, the sweep of his hat—it all forms a magnificent picture of stateliness. But Will can’t help wondering—“How are you feeling about it?”

A ghost of consternation flits across James’s face for just a moment. “I thought I would feel awful,” he says slowly, “but I don’t, or not to the extent I expected.” He pauses. “Is that wicked of me?”

“No,” Will rushes, smiling with as much relief as encouragement. He smoothes the fabric of James’s coat, then snatches his hand back, though they are still quite alone. “I’m glad you’re not upset. It’s a fine day.”

James flushes slightly as he says, “All the finer now that you’re here.”

Will looks down, fighting to keep a boundless grin from breaking across his face. Then he feels fingers beneath his chin, lifting his head, and before he knows it, James’s lips are on his. The kiss is sun-warmed, yet cool from the shadows in which they stand, and the curve of James’s mouth says plainly that he is smiling. When Will pulls away—too soon, too soon—he places his own fingers on James’s lips instead. “We have to be careful,” he breathes.

Minutely, James nods. “I’m very glad you’re here,” he whispers against Will’s fingertips.

Such is the giddy pleasure that floods Will, he half expects to start laughing and give them away. He can’t explain it, the joy he feels simply from feeling James stand close to him, hearing him speak. He doesn’t trust his voice—he nods and presses another kiss to James’s mouth. Then he slips from the niche with a last backward glance and quietly leaves the festivities, walking away beneath the perfect blue of the sky while the sun paints the world white and brilliant.


	7. Beat Parry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beat Parry: deflecting an incoming attack with a sharp striking motion.

Though his eyes are prickling with exhaustion and his arms and back ache from a thousand hammer-strokes, Will fingers the stones in his pocket and his heart beats faster. It’s a struggle to move through the darkened, quiet streets slowly enough that he isn’t noticed, but he keeps his footsteps measured, doesn’t slip on the little hills, stays in the shadows.

He reaches the barracks and nearly turns back when he spots the guards—of course there are guards, he thinks, this is the Navy—but then stifles a laugh as he hears the snores. He creeps past them and starts counting windows. He counts again, and triple-checks. The stone rests light in his palm. With a last peek at the guards, he swings his arm back and throws.

Will hears the stone clatter against glass, but nothing happens. He throws another pebble and waits a few moments, then another. At last he sees the faint glow of a lamp beyond the pane. After a minute, the window opens and James appears, dark against the light from inside. There is a second of silence. Then—“Will?”

“Come outside,” Will calls softly back.

It’s too far to make out the expression on James’s face, but Will guesses that he’s frowning. “What are you doing here? It’s the middle of the night.”

“I know,” Will says. “Just come outside.” He pauses. “Please.”

He hears the low sound of James’s laughter, wafted his way by the gentle breeze. He doesn’t reply, simply ducks back inside, and the lamp flickers out—but only a few minutes pass before James is slipping out to meet him around the corner of the building, out of sight and earshot of the guards. He looks around anxiously, then comes closer. “What is it?”

“I fancied a walk,” Will tells him, bolder than he feels—because how he feels is naked, not covered by the darkness but laid bare by it. He lifts his chin against his own uncertainty.

They’re close enough now that there is no longer any doubt that James is frowning. “It’s very late,” he says.

As if he isn’t becoming more mortified by the second, Will says, “Then there will be no one around to see us.”

He sees the surprised, disbelieving widening of James’s eyes. “Where did you want to walk?” James asks after a moment.

“On—on the beach,” Will says. His heart is in his throat. He doesn’t look away.

Mercifully, James smiles. “That sounds marvelous,” he says.

Will’s relief is such that he barely takes any notice of the path leading to the water, and he knows that he is probably making too much noise, but he can’t quite bring himself to care. When they reach the sand, the sound of the waves masks the shifting of their footsteps.

“It wasn’t so risky,” Will says, watching the way James looks around, though they are utterly alone. “The guards were asleep.”

James gives a small laugh, barely more than a huff of breath. “I expect it was Mullroy and Murtogg,” he says. “If they ever aren’t assigned to the same duty, I’ll eat my hat.” He shakes his head and laughs again. “Of course, on that day, we might actually accomplish something of value in this blasted company.”

Will snorts in spite of himself. “Don’t be cruel,” he chuckles.

“They were asleep,” James insists, but he’s smiling. “They’re most likely _still_ sleeping, while for all they know someone’s attacking the fort.”

“Or sneaking out of it,” Will says, and grins when James rolls his eyes. “It _is_ late,” Will allows, still struggling with the last trace of his misgivings. “I’m sorry for waking you.”

“I was already awake,” James says.

For a brief instant, Will is surprised—even he is usually in bed at this hour—but he has no time to dwell on it, as James takes his hand and pulls him closer to his side. “What?” Will asks with James’s body pressed against his for the splendid, off-balance moment before he finds his footing.

“Sorry,” James says automatically, and holds him steady with a firmer grip. “Nothing,” he says in answer to Will’s question. “I just wanted you nearer, that’s all.”

 _That’s all,_ Will thinks to himself, torn between indignation and wonder— _that’s all,_ as if the words and James’s touch don’t send a chill over Will’s skin and make his chest feel tight enough to burst. “I suppose that’s all right,” he says.

James says, “Oh, good,” so drily that even he can’t keep a straight face and ends up laughing. The sound doesn’t carry far, and it seems to be masked by the swell of the water, but nevertheless he leans still closer to Will as if to muffle the noise in the small space between them.

Will turns to look out at the sea and is captivated for a heartbeat by the shine of the moon on the surface of the water, whiter than the sands, at once inky and clear. He feels James rest his chin on his shoulder, arms wrapping from behind to hold him in a loose embrace. Slightly startled, Will goes still, as if afraid of spooking some wild creature.

“Darkness settles on roofs and walls,” James murmurs, his lips next to Will’s ear, “but the sea, the sea in darkness calls.” The rhythm of his words is slightly chanting and Will feels sure he’s reciting something. They both remain motionless, watching the water roll gently toward them to slow and spread in foam. “The little waves, with their soft, white hands”—as if to reflect the words, James moves his own hands to fold Will’s between them—“efface the footprints in the sands.” He turns his head slightly and murmurs against Will’s throat, “And the tide rises—the tide falls.”

There is no room between them at all anymore; when Will turns his head, James is already there and he kisses Will harder than he ever has before, so that Will gasps into his mouth and a chill rises on his skin, at odds with the warmth of the air. Such is his surprise that he loses his footing on the shifting sand and falls, off-balance—and so closely together are they pressed that he drags James down with him without meaning to.

Laughing, they sink to the soft ground, where James doesn’t cease with his kisses but persists until they are both out of breath. There they lie for several minutes, not speaking. With his head on James’s chest, Will listens to the crescendo of his breath which mingles with the sound of the sea until he can’t discern the two. “The tide rises,” he says absently, “the tide falls.”

James stirs beneath him. “What?”

The moonlight glances at the perfect angle off a wave and makes Will squint against the dazzle that it throws. “That poem,” he says, “where did you read it?”

James sighs, and it rushes loud against Will’s ear. “I can’t recall,” he says. “Some old book or other.” His fingers begin toying with the hem of Will’s tunic. “Why?”

Will smiles at the touch and twists around to look at James’s face, washed pale and stark. “It’s beautiful,” he says.

“So is the sea,” James says. He reaches up to trace Will’s lips with one finger, then pulls him close and kisses him softly. “So are you,” he whispers, and the sea swells.

Much like the tide, time marches on unceasing, and Will finds that late-night visits such as these—any visits at all—are rarer occurrences now than they once were. James is busier than ever after his promotion, while Will’s own schedule rapidly fills as well. A week passes, then two, during which the most they see of each other are hurried minutes snatched every few days, often barely time enough for a murmured word.

Will turns his attention as best he can to his most pressing project, the rapier for Lord Cosgrove. It’s a delicate process, for the blade is finer than those he’s accustomed to crafting, but he makes good progress all the same. It’s difficult to time the arrival of the ships from England, but he knows Cosgrove will be here soon, and he thinks he will be ready.

“I think you can’t possibly be quite as law-abiding as they all say you are,” Will says, not looking up from his work when he hears the smithy door open and smells the gunpowder carried in on the resulting breeze.

“Oh?” James’s footsteps come to a halt several feet behind Will. “And what am I, then?”

An image appears in Will’s mind of him leaning against the trestle table, one hand on his hip, head at a jaunty angle beneath the curve of his hat, his sparkling gaze full of laughter. He resists the urge to turn and smiles at the parchment against which he is checking the design. “You’re a bloody nuisance, James Norrington.”

The burst of James’s laughter fills up the cramped smithy. “And yet you keep me around anyways.”

Will marvels at the way things have changed: a year ago James would have flushed and stammered and possibly even left. “You had better take care,” he says. “If you keep interrupting me I shall be out of a job and living in the streets.”

“Interrupting you?” James repeats. “I haven’t done anything.”

“You’re distracting,” Will amends, then feels heat rush to his face as he registers how that sounds. He still doesn’t turn.

“I see.” James’s voice is low but it carries, as does the sound of his shifting feet, and then he sounds much closer—“What is it about me, exactly, that distracts you so?” His smile is clear behind the words. “I arrived scarcely two minutes ago.” Cool fingers press against the back of Will’s neck.

Will spins around, nearly losing his balance in his haste but catching himself against his table, face-to-face with James who still has one hand raised and continues to wear a cheeky, knowing grin. “You wait,” Will says, doing his best to sound intimidating. “Someday I’ll drop in on you without warning when you’re—planning something important, or swinging a sword about, and—see how you like it.” His breathlessness becomes impossible to hide by the end of the sentence, giving him away.

“If it’s anything like this, I think I’ll like it very much,” James says, and moves to kiss Will with his lips still smiling—

“Someone’s coming,” Will says, and turns away as the door creaks once more on its hinges.

Somehow, by the time Will turns around again as if he’s only just been interrupted at his work, James has managed to move a whole ten feet away from him despite the clutter of the smithy. He stands leaning against a rack as before, but now the lines of his body seem only superficially relaxed—held in place by a tension that Will wonders if the others can see.

The others turn out, in fact, to be three men in naval uniforms, one of whom Will recognizes. It’s Lieutenant Gillette. From the stripes on the others’ coats, the second man is also a lieutenant, and the third, who is in front, clearly ranks higher, though Will isn’t sure of his office.

“Good day, Mr. Turner,” says the third man, inclining his head as Will bows from the waist. “Is your master about?”

“Er,” Will says, “no. Sir.”

“Have you any idea where he might be found, or when he will return?”

Will’s mind grapples with irritation and confusion as he simultaneously curses Brown for his ineptitude and tries to remember whether he knows the answer or not. After a few seconds, already too long of a pause, he says, “He was called away on urgent business. I’m sure he’ll return with all due haste.” He shuts his mouth firmly, wondering if that sounded impertinent.

However, the man’s gaze has wandered in what could be impatience or thoughtfulness, and alights now on James, lurking in the shadows of the smithy like a hesitant ghost. “Commander!” he exclaims. “I certainly didn’t expect to find you here.”

James bows so stiffly that he looks as if his spine might snap in two. “Good afternoon, Admiral.” As he straightens up, his eyes dart to Will for a moment and just as quickly away. His whole frame is still tense as rigging in a storm.

“What business brings you here?” the Admiral asks.

It’s a simple enough question, but it floods Will with unreasonable, icy-cold panic. He stares between James and the Admiral, frozen, unable to do anything but watch James struggle with an answer for a heartbeat that seems to stretch on for years. He bites down on his tongue to keep himself from bursting out with something that would only call more attention to James’s hesitation.

“I was about to place an order,” James says at last, through lips that barely move. Will sees him swallow. “But I can easily come back another time—”

The Admiral shakes his head, makes a small, polite bow. “By all means, carry on. My errand is not so pressing as to demand priority.”

So Will has no choice but to dust off his hands and pull his ledger from the shelf with hands that want to shake. He dips his quill in the ink and says, “What was it again?”

James looks down at the table when he answers, determinedly avoiding Will’s gaze. “A sword,” he says, “with a colichemarde blade, twenty-nine inches, and a basket-hilt.”

“Certainly,” Will says, speaking to James’s shoulder. He feels paralyzed and numb and fears, somehow, that if they meet each other’s eyes they will be discovered. That if they even exchange too many words, all will be lost. His heart beats at his ribs like an animal trapped in a cage and he jerks the quill unevenly across the parchment, splattering the page with ink. “When would you like it?”

“Ah,” James says, “whenever you have the time.”

Will stares at him, forgetting to be careful. Such a lack of preference is unusual, and he’s terrified that one of the other three will comment on it—but James looks at him with anxious confusion, and nobody says anything. “I appreciate that,” Will manages. He marks it down. “Will that be all?”

James nods, a terse wrench of his neck.

Then comes the worst, as Will holds out his hand to shake and conclude the transaction and has an instant of dread, but James clasps his hand once, firmly, and exits the shop with a hasty bow to his comrades almost before he has let go.

Far from breathing easier with James gone, Will feels his throat constrict in apprehension now that he is alone with the other three. “Now—” he rasps, and clears his throat, wets his dry lips. “Now, gentlemen, what can I do for you?”

The Admiral steps forward; if he notices Will’s tension, he ignores it. “Have you any cleats on hand,” he asks, “which you can spare, to be paid for at a later date?”

“Cleats?” Will repeats, his mind lagging.

“Yes,” says the Admiral, somewhat impatiently, “one of our ships suffered some unexpected damage on her last voyage and she must be repaired quickly.”

Will recovers. “Certainly.” He isn’t quite sure whether he has cleats or not, as he trades mainly in weapons and tools, not shipbuilding—but he finds one, tarnished but not too badly off, on a shelf beside the forge among several other seldom-used pieces. “We can settle the payment whenever you prefer,” he says, proffering the cleat and praying that its shabbiness will be excused if he doesn’t demand a certain price.

But the Admiral barely gives it a glance. “I appreciate it,” he says. He takes the cleat and hands it to one of the Lieutenants. Then he turns back to Will and hesitates a moment. “If you wouldn’t mind passing along to Mr. Brown,” he says, “that we were here—all three of us—you would be doing us a great service.”

“Of course,” Will says, taken aback by the abrupt change in the Admiral’s tone and the deliberation with which he seems to be choosing his words. He highly doubts that Brown will have the slightest interest in conducting these affairs, if he ever turns up at all, but he can’t very well refuse. “Which names shall I give him?”

“Lieutenants Gillette and Groves, and Admiral Gillan.”

At the last, Will pauses in writing down the names on a scrap of parchment, but by the time he finishes and looks up, the three have already gone. So that is Admiral Gillan—he remembers, as if in another life, James coming to his door holding a sword with a bent quillon. He smiles to himself; how different everything is now.

As he replaces his ledger in the satchel, however, Will’s smile fades. He feels suddenly dizzy and his hands tremble slightly. He presses his fingers to the worn leather to still them. The awful peril of the situation sets in—the nearness of the brush he's just had. One misspoken word, one false movement, and he shudders to think what might have happened. Some small, desperate part of him cries that this must be an overreaction, but fear clutches at him so that all he can hear is the thudding of his panicked heart.

Gillan, Gillette, and Groves—three men who, given what he's heard of them, surely have some of the sharpest eyes in Port Royal. Three men whose power makes them dangerous to people guilty of far less than this. Three men who—

Three men. Will’s thoughts snag on the detail, and he grasps at it as a welcome distraction from his current downward spiral. Three well-connected military men in his smithy, at the same time, and in uniform, all to buy a cleat? It strikes Will as odd. And, he considers, with a prickle at the back of his mind like an itch he can't reach, it isn't his smithy at all—it’s Brown's. Their business was with him. Hadn't they asked to speak to him? Hadn't they pressed Will for details—and hadn't they left as quickly as possible, once it was apparent that Brown was not going to appear?

Yes, Will thinks, that's it. He remembers Gillan's disinterest upon receiving the cleat, as if he couldn't care less what condition it was in. Yet his manner was quite different when he asked Will to give Brown the message. And all of it together makes Will think that the cleat was an excuse of some kind, meant to disguise their real reason for coming into the shop. What could have possibly brought them here, on their guard, to speak with a drunkard, when their business lies more with criminals and acts of war?

And at the thought of criminals, all thoughts of a conspiracy fly out of Will's head and he is back to where he started, ill at ease, restless, dreading a knock on the door.

Three agonizing days pass before he sees James again, during which he is alternately reassured, thinking that it's better to keep their distance for a time, and terrified that the silence is of a more sinister nature. When at last he finds James on his threshold again, very late and whispering, he feels a rush of heady relief and has to resist the urge to ruin it all by embracing James in full view of the street.

Once inside, however, he kisses James against the wall of the smithy and James responds with such enthusiasm that neither of them say anything for several minutes. In the end, though, they have to breathe, and the first words out of James’s mouth are, “This is going to change things.”

Will knows instantly what he’s referring to, but wishes he didn’t. “What?” he asks, hoping, impossibly, that he’s wrong.

“We will have to be more careful,” James says. His fingers trace the line of Will’s jaw and trail down his throat.

The softness of his voice, the tenderness of his touch—Will wants desperately to pretend that what he’s saying is equally gentle. He supposes that in a way it is. “We’ve _been_ careful,” he says anyway.

For a moment, James doesn’t speak, and Will wonders if he’s thinking of all the late nights, the visits cut short, even the months in which all was a wash of confusion between them and they hardly dared to meet each other’s eyes. “I know,” he says at last, and Will is certain that he is.

“But,” Will sighs before James has the chance, “it isn’t enough.”

Silently, James nods.

Will can hardly bear the look on his face, as if this is already their last meeting. “We’ll make it work,” he says with more strength than he feels. “I’m not giving up.”

Finally, James smiles, a sad thing but real. “What,” he says, “did I ever do to deserve you?”

Lightly, as if he is all right, as if no part of him aches, Will brushes a kiss to James’s cheek. “I believe I’ve got the rather better end of the bargain,” he says, and when James laughs, his heart eases somewhat.

As it is, they don't see each other nearly as often after that, for which Will is partly, and guiltily, grateful. He is able to finish Lord Cosgrove's sword in the intervening weeks between visits, and begins preparations for the gaol bars, which he knows will be an extensive project for all that they are relatively simple.

He keeps in mind Brown's strange involvement with Gillan and the Lieutenants while he works, but the officers don't return, and every time Brown makes an appearance, he's so inebriated that Will sees no point in asking him about it.

Cutting a path down to the harbor on one cloudy afternoon, however, he sees Elizabeth not far off, and thinks it might not be a bad idea to broach the subject with her. In the past she has passed news along from Gillette and Groves, after all. He angles toward her.

She sees him coming and her expression betrays nothing, but at least she doesn’t turn away. “Mr. Turner,” she says as he approaches, still sweeping along slightly ahead of him. “I trust you’re well.”

“I am,” he says. “And you are as well?”

With a small smile as he catches up, she nods.

Will considers the merits of further polite conversation and finds them wanting. “I was wondering,” he says, “whether you had heard anything odd lately.”

“I’ve heard quite a bit about a truant apprentice who refuses to produce a certain ornament,” she says. Her smile is crooked now. “Does that count?”

For a moment, Will is taken aback, and then he realizes she’s referring to her father, who is no doubt impatient by this point. It’s something of a relief to know that she isn’t as irritated as her words imply. “Not quite,” he says, and presses on. “I mean about—well—” The drawback to investigating something about which he has barely any information, he reflects, is that it’s almost impossible to know what to ask. “—about Mr. Brown. Or Admiral Gillan.” Too late, he thinks that perhaps it was unwise to mention the latter name.

Elizabeth glances sideways at him. “Mr. Brown and Admiral Gillan?” Her voice is almost sharp. “What about them?”

“I’m not quite sure,” Will admits. “The Admiral came into the smithy and—I suppose it doesn’t matter much—but it was odd.”

The whole thing sounds quite unremarkable when put that way, and it’s clear by her raised eyebrows that Elizabeth is of the same mind. “Was it,” she says dryly. She sighs slightly. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’ve heard nothing.”

“At all?” Will stumbles slightly over a stone and has to catch up again, as Elizabeth seems to be walking more and more quickly. “Have you spoken to them lately?”

Elizabeth shakes her head once. “Everyone is frightfully busy working against the pirates,” she says. “They haven’t time for—”

Pirates? “It’s not the pirates,” he says, half to himself, not meaning to cut her off but too intent to apologize. Of Elizabeth, he asks, “Are you quite sure there’s nothing else that might be occupying them?”

“If I’d known you would take such an interest in everything I hear,” Elizabeth snaps, “I would have paid much more attention.” She snaps out the words and does not look at him.

“I beg your pardon?” is all Will can think to say.

She throws him a glance that is bitter and sad. “If all I am is a pair of ears, I should like to know it.” Without waiting for a response, she sweeps ahead and leaves Will to be swallowed by the crowd.

For the rest of the day and well into the next, the issue wears at Will like a blister on his heel, now with the added concern of somehow having offended his oldest friend—again, he reminds himself, and vows to do better in the future, though he only has a vague idea of what he did wrong to begin with.

And then, as if in answer to his prayers, the Admiral returns after another week’s silence. Gillette and Groves aren’t with him, and Will stands stiff with surprise for a long moment before bowing. “Are you looking for Mr. Brown?” he asks, fearful and hopeful at once.

Gillan gives him a measured look. “Is he about?”

Will hesitates for just a moment too long and feels that he might as well spit it out. “Er—no, sir.”

“I would have preferred to discuss this with him,” Gillan says slowly, “but in his absence—” And he looks long and hard at Will again, who now has the feeling that he’s the one being measured. After several seconds, he appears to reach a decision. “I wonder if we might speak more comfortably?”

“More—?” Will scrambles to obey and nearly tips the trestle table over in his hurry to find a chair. “To—to what do I owe the pleasure?” he stammers when they’re both seated.

Gillan peers through the dim smithy and does not speak immediately. “This is a delicate issue,” he says at last.

Will nods as if he understands and hopes he doesn’t look as bewildered as he feels. “I’ll keep quiet about it.”

“I appreciate that,” says Gillan. “It wouldn’t do if the colony were to panic—not that there’s any great reason—well—Mr. Turner, how much do you know about pirates?”

The question takes Will by surprise. “Only that they’re rotten,” he says without thinking, and then catches himself. “I mean, sir, they’re lawless and dangerous villains.”

But Gillan is smiling faintly. “You have more reason than most to hate them. Not only for the most recent attack, but the misfortune during your crossing from England—” Will’s confusion must show on his face. “Commander Norrington told me of your meeting.”

“Did he,” Will gets out in what is a passably even tone.

Gillan seems to notice nothing. “It’s for both of those reasons,” he continues, “that I’m willing to discuss this with you rather than your master. I trust you will understand the gravity of the situation when I tell you that the threat we face from piracy today is greater than it has been for many years.”

Will swallows, his throat suddenly dry. The calm, deliberate tone of the Admiral’s voice sends a chill down his spine. “Yes, sir,” he says. “But—why are you telling me this?”

“As blacksmith,” Gillan says, “or blacksmith’s apprentice, you keep our farmers in their fields, but you also keep our ships manned and in the water.” He pauses. “I don’t believe it’s an exaggeration to say that without your office, the colony might well fall apart.”

As if from far away, Will hears himself telling James that he is the only thing holding Port Royal together. He feels out of his depth and more than a little overwhelmed. Surely, he thinks, it isn’t so much as all that. “It’s an honor,” he says after a moment. “What is it you’re asking me to do?” For it is becoming clear that something is expected of him.

A long moment passes before Gillan responds, during which it seems as if he’s debating whether or not he will say anything at all. At last he sighs. “This heightened situation,” he says, “calls for new measures of preparation. I would like you to complete this order.” He reaches into his coat and pulls a heavily-inked sheet of parchment—several sheets, Will notices—from within.

When Will scans the sheets, he considers for the first time, even in light of everything he’s just heard, refusing a commission. Merely reading the numbers makes his shoulders burn with anticipated hammer-blows. “This is extensive,” he says, but of course he has already agreed. There was never really a choice. “When would you—”

“As soon as you possibly can,” Gillan says, raising gooseflesh on Will’s arms. “I have faith in your abilities,” he says. Without further ado, he rises to leave, then pauses halfway out of his chair. “Mr. Turner,” he says, standing slowly, “I hope you’ll remember the sensitivity of these circumstances and act with fit care.”

It’s almost humiliating, Will thinks suddenly, the way both he and Governor Swann treat him as if there is an insurmountable difference between their lives. As it is, he can’t muster more than minor irritation, perhaps because he knows that they are half-right, little though he likes to admit it. “Certainly, sir,” is all he says.

In hindsight, of course, Will’s fears about Brown’s involvement with anything unsavory seem quite ludicrous, but far worse is the knowledge that he’s snubbed Elizabeth for no reason. He sets the new order aside for the day and wanders the upper district of the town in hopes of seeing her, intending to apologize, but she’s nowhere to be found.

James comes again that night, soft-footed and cautious as always. “Good evening,” he says, and kisses Will with one hand on his back, pressing them together.

“Good evening, yourself,” Will says. “I trust you’re well?”

“Better now,” James says.

Will grins helplessly and presses his hand to James’s cheek. “Who would have guessed that the great Commander Norrington is a sentimentalist?”

James, predictably, flushes and looks away, though the corner of his mouth twitches.

“Admiral Gillan visited again today,” Will tells him. “It wasn’t about us,” he rushes when James’s eyes dart back to his, “he hasn’t noticed anything—he had an order. Quite a large one. Swords, hooks, chains, even parts for cannons.”

Rather than the surprise Will expects, James nods, his expression shadowed. “I thought he might,” he says, and there’s a heaviness to his words. “I think it’s good that you’ll have them.”

“I won’t keep them,” Will points out.

“No,” James agrees, “but you ought to practice with them.” He nods at the look on Will’s face. “If more pirates come, you must be able to defend yourself.”

Will doesn’t argue. He knows it’s a good idea, and doesn’t deny that he’d like to be able to avenge his losses in the last attack. “Do you think they will?” he asks.

James half-nods, half-shrugs. “The Admiral has been making some hints.”

“About what,” Will asks, “something more?” Because it’s clear from James’s tone that a larger game is at work.

James shakes his head with pursed lips, as if he’s reluctant to speak but resigned to do so anyway. “You know I fought the pirates when I sailed with the _Interceptor,”_ he says, “and before that, the _Poseidon’s Pride_ and—there were other times as well. I have more experience in that sort of combat than many of my comrades.” He doesn’t say it boastfully. “They will be sending out another ship to do as much as she can, so the colony can receive the usual shipments, and so those making the crossing are in less danger.” James looks from Will to his own hands, and then to Will again.

It takes a moment before Will fully understands what James is telling him, and when he does, his heart sinks. “When do you leave?” he asks.

“Tomorrow,” James says; after he speaks, the silence fills up around them, pressing in, suffocating.

Will can’t think what to say. He isn’t sure if this is better or worse than the last time, when James left without warning—he has a few hours, now, to learn how to bear it, but every second has suddenly gained an awful sort of urgency, because he knows what is coming. Horribly, the memory comes back to him of a woman he saw once on the pier when her husband’s ship returned with the man in question absent. He remembers how she screamed.

Immediately he checks himself. That isn’t the norm. But his pulse beats faster and he can’t help looking at James, all words beyond him, with the full intent to look until they are torn away from one another.

“I’m sorry,” James whispers miserably.

Will knows he only means to commiserate, not to take on the blame, but he shakes his head anyway. “Then don’t go.” He half-smiles as he says it, because he means it with every fiber of his being but can’t escape the inevitable as much as he might want to. “I know,” he says before James has a chance to open his mouth, “I know it doesn’t work like that.”

With an unbearable sigh, James presses his lips to Will’s hand. “I’m sorry,” he says again. Then—“I’ll stay till dawn.”

But it’s before dawn when Will awakes to a faint tickling sensation on his cheek. He reaches up, half asleep, to brush it away, and catches a hand in his own. Opening his eyes, he sees James smiling at him. “What?”

“I have to go,” James murmurs, regretful.

“It’s not yet light,” Will reminds him. “You have a few minutes more.”

James shakes his head, but doesn’t leave. He removes his hand from Will’s and brushes his knuckles, soft as a whisper, over Will’s cheek. The expression in his eyes is queer, and when he leans down and kisses Will, kisses him so deeply that the little room seems almost to fall away for a moment, it tastes both sweet and bitter. “The sun’s coming up,” he says.

Then James stands and walks to the small window, and Will sees that he already has his boots on. He sits up. “Please,” he says—but he doesn’t want to say _don’t go,_ not again, because it will only hurt and change nothing.

James turns and smiles as if he knows what Will is thinking. “’Tis true, ’tis day, what though it be?” he says. “O wilt thou therefore rise from me?” It’s clear that this is another poem, but James doesn’t sound as if he’s reciting anything; the words are too true for that. “Why should we rise because ’tis light? Did we lie down because ’twas night?”

“Stop,” Will says, softly, without much insistence. He feels that if James speaks much longer, he will fall apart and weep in this darkened space, yet he doesn’t want his voice to fade.

“I’m sorry.” James looks over his shoulder and Will sees, faintly, the glow of dawn on the side of his face. He looks back at Will and his expression is resolved.

“How long,” Will asks, “do you know—?”

But James is already shaking his head. “Until we’re victorious,” he says, “or—well.”

There’s no need for him to finish. Will leaves the bed and pulls him to one side of the window, where he kisses him, out of sight of the street. It’s chaste; his hands tremble. “Don’t do anything rash,” he says, and hopes it doesn’t sound like the desperate plea that it is. “I couldn’t bear it if—”

James catches him in an embrace that stops the words. He clutches Will to him with fingers that grasp at his tunic, his face hidden in Will’s shoulder. Almost before Will brings his own arms up to hold him, James whispers, “Keep a weather eye on the horizon,” and wrenches himself away.

Will resists the urge to hang out of the window as he sees James step into the narrow street below and walk away, not looking back. Something in Will burns watching him disappear around the corner. He turns his gaze to where the sea meets the sky, stretching wide and distant, as if James might return already. The sun is indeed rising now, shooting the first brilliant rays into the gray heavens. Will stands at the window until the light reaches him and the tips of the waves sparkle golden, and he has to look away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first poem James quotes is ["The Tide Rises, The Tide Falls" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.](http://www.theotherpages.org/poems/longf03.html#3) The second is ["Break of Day" by John Donne.](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/51783) Only the second was actually written at the time the fic/movies are set, but who cares, I promised neither quality nor accuracy.


	8. Coulé

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coulé: an attack or feint that slides along the opponent’s blade.

_My dearest love,_

_Each day without you grows darker, and I begin to wonder if you will ever return or if I will stare forever towards the horizon. All the sails that appear in the distance are nothing but disappointments to me._

_No doubt I am being quite foolish, writing these words. I thank God that you are not hear to read them and tell me so—and then again, were you here, I would have no need to write at all for as the sun set, you would appear in the doorway and all would be well. Instead I will not even send this letter._

Will has lost count of the number of times he has set quill to parchment and come up empty, or rather, too full—unable to express on the page exactly what he feels, and afraid to try. When he does manage to write a few words, he omits James's name against anyone who might happen to read it. But more often than not he writes nothing at all, packs his tools in the satchel, replaces it upon the shelf, and eradicates thought in the swing of a hammer.

As fortune—or misfortune—would have it, he is busier than he can ever remember being in his life, including the first months of his apprenticeship when he hardly knew a grindstone from an anvil. Admiral Gillan's order is enough to keep a dozen blacksmiths in bread. Added to this load is the burden of Governor Swann's commissioned ornament, which is frivolous but mandatory, and which really ought to have been finished months ago.

“Mr. Turner,” says a voice, and Will turns to see a youth in naval garb standing just inside the threshold. It is, in fact, the same boy who showed Will to James's quarters over a year ago when he had the audacity to visit, and seeing him again makes leftover anxiety flutter in the pit of his stomach. The sensation turns to dread, pooling sticky and dark, when the boy continues, “There's a gentleman down the docks'd like to see you, sir.”

The boy tells him to bring his ledger, and they set off, the boy a few steps ahead. He doesn't speak and seems rather indifferent to Will's presence, as if he's a dog that must be fetched. Nevertheless, one question clamors for the asking so that at last Will can bear it no longer. “Who is it that sent you?” he asks.

Without a backward glance, the boys says, “I don't know, sir. His ship dropped anchor not two hours ago.”

“Which ship?”

“Not sure what she's called.” The boy takes a corner faster than Will can keep up.

When they come into view of the docks, Will scans the harbor in search of the _Hyena,_ as he has done every time he has cause to go within sight of the bay, but can make little out in the crowded water. “Can you point me—” Will breaks off, for the boy has vanished into the crush of people.

Wrestling with his irritation and anxiety, Will goes toward the nearest person who looks as though they might be able to help him, a man in a large hat and significant wig. Before he reaches him, however, his ear is caught by words in a women’s voices—

“Becalmed, yes—”

“How many did they lose?”

“Pardon me,” Will says, and the women turn toward him. “Which ship was becalmed?”

“Not just one ship,” one says, “three. All blown into a storm and left drifting for weeks. They were making the crossing from England, we expected them ages ago.” At that, Will experiences such a wave of relief that he nearly sinks to his knees right then and there to offer up thanks to all the gods known to man. Then another of the women says, “I heard the ships were the _Lancelot,_ the _Arbiter,_ and the _Wind Hound.”_

Will does a double take, and spins around to stare at the water again, hoping in vain to read the names of the ships, though at this distance it’s impossible.

Before he can do much more than squint, however, he feels a tug on his sleeve. “Mr. Turner, sir.” It’s the boy who led him here, now looking faintly irritated. He beckons.

“Thank you,” Will says to the women, and follows the boy as he makes his way through the crowd, mainly by use of elbows. Eventually they emerge in an alcove, too small to be a proper room and lacking in doors and a fourth wall besides. Governor Swann and three men—captains by their hats—are in deep conversation. Will stands to the side for a moment, wondering if he ought to speak, unsure who exactly has summoned him here.

But someone calls, “Mr. Turner!” and he follows the voice to see a rail-thin, tan-faced man holding a ledger as thick as his own. “You are the blacksmith?” he asks.

“I am.”

“My name is Prentiss,” says the man, “I’m Boatswain of the _Wind Hound._ Our ship requires—a number of repairs, given her recent battery in the storm. Your services are sorely needed.”

With a feeling of helpless defeat, Will opens his ledger on the table and wets his quill. He thinks of all the work he has yet to do for the Admiral and dismisses his own sense of self-preservation. “What can I do for you?”

After Will has written down the order, happily less than he feared, Mr. Prentiss removes his cracked glasses and wipes them on his shirt, which is hardly clean enough to make a difference. “There remains, Mr. Turner, only one matter more. Have you in your book a Lord Cosgrove of Warkworth?”

The sense of dread returns, quite as strong as before. Will turns to the page in question. “I have,” he says, already knowing what it means.

“I regret to inform you,” says Prentiss, “that he was among those who perished in the doldrums. You may strike his order from your records. I hope it hasn’t cost you too much in the way of effort or materials.”

“No,” Will says, shaking his head. “It’s quite all right. My condolences to—all of you.” He shakes Prentiss’s hand and leaves as quickly as he is able.

For the rest of the day he puts all his other work aside and focuses on the new order of ship parts, throwing his back into it until the sweat runs down his face and he can hardly straighten his fingers, so tightly have they clenched the hammer. Yet by the time he stops—only when it grows so dark that the glow of the forge is not enough to illuminate his work—Will is no less troubled than before.

He is frightened of himself, of what he feels. For it is true that he feels regret for Lord Cosgrove’s death, compassion for his family, a sense of abstract horror at the fate that befell the man. It is not a happy mood, yet he clings to it rather than face a deeper truth—that he is relieved, glad that it was Lord Cosgrove who perished rather than a certain sailor with eyes greener than the sun shining through a comber.

Is this what James will make of him? Turn him hungry and yearning and uncaring but for the one he loves? Will tries to beat the guilt out of his being but it merely burrows deeper and lodges there, immovable.

Will does not sleep that night, feeling somehow that he must keep a kind of vigil. He has the faint sense that he is overreacting but is unable to shake his shock at his own devotion and his ghastly unbearable solace. Dawn comes at last and he throws open the smithy door—and, turning back into the darkness, is blinded for a moment by the shine of the sun’s first rays on metal.

It’s Lord Cosgrove’s rapier, finished only a week and a half ago and polished to perfection. Will takes it down from its rack to do with it he knows not what, only that he cannot bear to look at it, and then stops, and looks before he can stop himself. The narrow blade and gracefully curving pommel are enchanting, the swell of the rose adornment delicate: a beautiful piece, despite all that it means and despite the fresh guilt at the pride he feels in having crafted it.

The weight of it in Will’s hand stirs his memory. _If more pirates come, you must be able to defend yourself._ It has been weeks and still he’s not picked up any of the countless swords he has made. Now, looking at the blade, feeling its smooth metal and the force it carries, he comes to a decision.

Naturally, it is not so simple to find a teacher, being as he is nothing more than an apprentice and to a drunkard at that. He spends all the time he dares hanging around the navy yards watching the men at their drills, working late into the night at the forge in order to compensate for the lost hours.

“Pardon me,” says a woman’s voice.

Will turns. The sea-wind that hits him full in the face buffets him less than his surprise at seeing Elizabeth standing before him, though he supposes he ought to have been prepared, as she told him months and months ago that she enjoys walking at the fort. “Pardon me,” he says automatically back, and steps aside.

She lifts her chin and moves swiftly forward, looking firmly ahead.

“Miss Swann—” Will can't say for sure why he does it, but he is lonely, and sorry, and Elizabeth's lack of attendants makes him bold. “Please,” he says, though she's halfway past him already, “may I have a word?”

To his complete surprise, Elizabeth turns. “About what?” she asks, her tone one of biting civility, her gaze harder than steel. “Have you another mystery with which you need my help?”

“No.” Will shakes his head. “I am sorry about that,” he tells her. “I didn't think of—how it must have seemed.”

“How it was,” she corrects him.

Regret burns hot on his cheeks. “Yes. I—” He stops, his brain catching up to what he is saying, but he blusters ahead anyway. “I've missed you.”

Impassive, she blinks at him.

“That—that is to say—” He wishes she would give some clue that she does or does not want him to continue, and knows full well that she owes him nothing, but wants such a sign desperately nevertheless. “—Might we go walking again sometime soon?”

“I have no time this week,” she says coolly, “or the next. In fact, I have quite a number of obligations and no blacksmith's schedule to allow me the freedom to ignore them.”

With his mouth half-open to respond, Will pauses, suddenly aware that he is doing the very thing that landed him in this mess in the first place. “Forgive me,” he says, and wonders how to proceed. “When—when do you—?"

Elizabeth interrupts him with something that might almost be a smile. “Fortunately, I have no love of cotillions. I think I can find a fitting moment to escape.”

Gratified, relieved, and more than a little taken aback, Will murmurs his thanks and bows, as she shows clear signs of wanting to move on. After she has vanished into the crowd, he identifies a hint of irritation within himself, because after all it does seem almost as if she only agreed to see him because she took pity on him, rather than any real desire to speak to him—

He pauses in his automatic scanning of the horizon, searching for sails and trying not to care that they never appear. It seems, he reflects with a growing feeling of shame, that he is as foolish as he ever was.

Three days pass before Elizabeth appears, and when she does, Will can hardly believe his eyes, being half-convinced until he saw her that she would not actually come. As it is, he nearly cuts his hand on the sword he's sharpening, and only barely manages to avoid burying the point in his own foot when he loses his balance in his haste to stand up. “Good day,” he says, and steadies himself against the trestle table.

“Good day,” Elizabeth says, a second late, an odd smirk playing around her lips. She looks around the smithy and dusts off a bench before sitting on it.

It's the queerest sensation Will has ever experienced, seeing her so calmly seated in precisely the same place that James usually occupies. Yet she doesn’t look out of place—not even in her brilliant green dress, likely equal in worth to any of the swords hanging on the walls: rather, she seems to gentrify the entire smithy ever so slightly, as if she has brought sunlight with her into the dark space.

“These are quite a lot of swords,” she remarks presently, indicating the hanging weapons with a tilt of her head.

Will realizes that he is still standing static beside the grindstone, still holding the half-sharpened blade, and hastens to put it away. “Yes,” he says, “there was a—”

“Please don’t stop working on my account,” Elizabeth interrupts, just before he places the sword on its rack. “I know you’re quite busy.”

Unable to decide if she means what she says or if it’s another test, Will settles for sitting opposite her and polishing the blade with a piece of soft hide. “There was a large order from a—from an important patron.”

“From the Navy.” Elizabeth isn’t asking; she states it quite blandly, and when Will looks up at her, she shrugs. “One hears certain remarks, you know, at all those tea parties. It doesn’t take a great deal of effort to understand the state of things.”

“Ah,” Will says. He looks down at the sword again, recovering the thread of his thoughts as his surprise fades. “Well—yes, it was from Admiral Gillan. He impressed upon me the urgency of the matter.”

Now when he glances up at Elizabeth, he sees a flicker of something darker in her eyes. He remembers, ages ago, asking if she were frightened of pirates—it seems that at last she might actually have come to be slightly anxious at the thought. “What do you think?” she asks in a low voice.

“About the haste? I think it’s every bit as dire as he said it was.”

“No,” she says, “what do you think about our chances of victory?”

Will blinks. “At sea?”

Elizabeth nods.

By now, Will thinks, he ought to be unfazed by the penetrating nature of all her questions—she has never cared for what was ladylike or not, and appearances have never stopped her from speaking her mind. But perhaps it is the same as her clear, unswerving gaze, which always seems to cut him to the bone. He buys himself time to think of a suitable answer by leaning in close to the sword and rubbing at a speck of dirt on the hilt. “I’ve—tried not to think about it much,” he says truthfully, “but I have faith in the men out there on those ships. And we have won such battles in the past.”

“Against all odds,” she agrees.

“How do you mean?”

“Well,” Elizabeth says, frowning slightly, “by all rights this whole town ought to be at the bottom of the ocean by now, don't you think? From pirates or revolts or—or earthquakes, you know, like in Charles Town. Yet here we are.”

Looking at her, sitting across from him when he half-expected she would never willingly be in his company again, Will can well understand what she means. He bites back the grin that suddenly threatens and says, “Perhaps it is _because_ of the long odds that we've survived until now. Perhaps having no chance at all makes people fight all the more fiercely to prevail.”

She smiles now, fully. “You ought to leave smithing behind and study philosophy," she says, "or rhetoric.”

Will ducks his head, unable to help smiling in return. “I think I'll leave the speeches to you,” he says, “the number of times I've heard you talk your way out of mischief!” He shakes his head. “Besides, I'm far too busy right now to even think of trying a different profession.”

He means it as a joke, because the very idea is ludicrous for a whole host of reasons and they both know it, but Elizabeth grows suddenly serious, and he knows she is thinking again of the danger they are all in. “Have you thought of what you will do?” she asks quietly. “If there is an attack?”

“I have been—learning my way around a sword,” Will admits, “or trying to. I have no shortage of tools for practice,” he adds, joking again, unable to help attempting to lighten the mood, but it falls flat. “I don't know how much use I'll be if anything happens, but I reckon at the least I'll be able to get in a good swing or two.”

Elizabeth's mouth twists. “Let's pray it doesn't come to that.”

Will nods. Then—“I can't help but worry about them,” he says, “the soldiers, the sailors—if we are so anxious here, although we're relatively safe, what must it be like out there?”

He didn't mean to say it. He can hardly believe he _did_ say it; he flushes and silently curses his own name. At least, he thinks fervently, he did not mention James, which is nothing short of a miracle when faced with an outpouring of every worried thought he's had in the past month.

“I thought you said you had faith in them,” Elizabeth says. But then she continues, “I worry too. It's a very courageous thing they're doing.” There is beneath the gravity, unmistakably, a hint of envy.

Will sighs. He, too, wishes he were at sea—and not in the way that he has wished it since he was a boy, thrilling and free, but in a painful fashion, for he would rather that he did not need to wish it at all. Across from him, Elizabeth offers him a melancholy smile and he returns it, feeling glad that at least they are speaking again, though they seem farther apart now than ever before.

_Why, then, am I writing? In truth I do not know, much as I try to explain it to myself. Perhaps I want a way to tell you that I have done as you asked and begun to practice the sword—for I have. To my surprise, Miss Swann has taken an interest in my endeavors. She seems quite as concerned about you and your shipmates as I am—though of course we mention no names, and I am careful not to reveal anything._

_Now that I come to it, perhaps that is the reason for this letter: that you are gone and I am left and no one can know of my fear. I do not even dare to linger too long at the docks or speak your name lest I arouse suspicion._

The days pass, and Will is no longer as lonely as before: now Elizabeth keeps him company, more often than he expected. It is almost, he thinks, like the way it used to be between them, before he carried this weighty secret fear and before there opened between them a channel too deep to ford easily.

 

**1737**

 

He finally completes the ornament that Governor Swann ordered, now uncomfortably overdue, but it turns out to be a quick job: a delicate twining of metal in the shape of a trefoil, with two crossed rapiers stabbing through the heart of the piece. It’s heavy, more so than he might wish, and the quality of the metal—salvaged from the remains of all the swords he is churning out—means that he has to permanently affix the swords to the work in order to keep it from bending. But it does not betray its imperfections to the eye, and the governor accepts it gladly.

“I think he was quite pleased,” Elizabeth says, escorting him from the parlor to the door after the transaction is complete. “Even if it was late,” she adds, smirking at him.

Will shrugs, caught between a businessman’s guilt at the fact and a curious boldness at hearing her joke about it. “We’re all quite busy,” he says. It seems close to middle ground. “Is there anything I can do for you, my lady? While I’m here?”

She laughs. “I hardly think it would be fit to ask for a sword.”

“It needn’t be a sword,” he says, spurred on by the inexplicable desire to hear her laugh again. “I’ll happily make you a—a steel dress?”

“Hm,” she says, smiling, “that is tempting. But all things considered, I think I’d rather have the sword.” She shakes her head. “I wouldn’t ask you to make the effort at a time like this in any case. You said it yourself—everyone has enough to be getting on with.”

“I didn’t mean—” Will frowns at her. “It’s not an inconvenience to make things for one’s friends.” Then he stops, rather taken aback at himself. He is not entirely sure that they are friends still; despite all of their conversations, the time spent together, there remains some sort of stumbling block. “Or—are we?”

“Are we friends? Is that the question?” She is looking at him in that strange way that she always has, at once challenging and encouraging. “You should know by now, Will, I do not routinely visit the smithies of people who are not my friends.”

Will chuckles at that, but can’t resist craning his neck to check that the butler is not nearby.

“What is it?”

He shifts and flushes, though he’s sure now that nobody can hear. “Those visits are—not entirely proper,” he says.

“You sound like my father.” She lifts her chin. “Has impropriety ever stopped me before?”

“No,” Will admits. He thinks that if she were ever to let so trivial a thing as appearances influence her actions, she would be a stranger to him. Maddening, he thinks, and yet— “When will you visit again?” he asks. Though they come from his own mouth, the words are something of a surprise to hear.

Her smile grows. “I am not sure that question is entirely proper, either, _Mr. Turner.”_

He’s well aware of the fact. Already he feels it was a bad idea to ask.

But Elizabeth sees him looking for a way out and lays her hand on his arm, tethering him to the spot and branding him all at once. "Will. Don't worry." She turns to face him fully as they reach the door. "I'll come on Thursday, and it will be quite above reproach."

"I look forward to it, Miss Swann," he says, and removes the offending hand with his own. He brushes a polite kiss across the back and leaves before he does something foolish, the rhythm of his feet on the road keeping time with his pounding heart.

When she arrives on Thursday, Will has half a mind to find some excuse not to see her, but apart from knowing that it would likely destroy their friendship once and for all—which might not, he reflects, be a bad thing—he can't bring himself to miss seeing her.

As it is, for reasons he can't quite explain, he suggests that they leave the forge entirely, eliminating any chance that he has of being productive. They go for a walk—not at the fort, as usual, but along the hills behind the town and to the east, where the view of the ocean is unimpeded by roofs or walls. The few paths there are have been nearly swallowed up by the tall, stiff grass, dotted here and there with small purple flowers.

The wind here is somehow stronger than even along the front of the fort, and Elizabeth holds on to her hat. “No one knows that I'm here,” she tells Will with the air of one imparting the most delicious gossip. Her eyes jump like the waves.

Will suppresses a sigh, feeling both anxious and, to a lesser degree, elated, though the news isn't exactly surprising. “Is it really so dreadful,” he asks, “that you need to escape so badly?”

“If you need to ask that then I wish I’d been born a blacksmith’s daughter,” she says, all in one breath, swiftly, as if worried that someone will steal the words from her mouth. Then she smiles and glances at Will and away. “Not all of it is bad,” she says. “It’s just—” She gestures at the air, trying to indicate something beyond expression. “Stifling,” she says at last.

Will nods. “I can understand that.” He wonders if it’s at all similar to the way it feels to have the mass and weight and depth of his feelings for James tugging like a tide inside him without being able to speak of it. Perhaps, he thinks, they are two sides of some bound-up, chained-and-fettered coin. It isn’t really a very happy thought.

“Will,” Elizabeth says, coming to a halt, and he realizes he has stopped walking—“Will, why is it that you look so sadly on the sea?”

“What?” Will turns to look at her, but she is not smiling now, nor does she seem even remotely to be joking. “I don’t know what you mean,” he says, and he doesn’t.

“You do it often,” she says. “When you look at the horizon, you—you look rather hopeless.” She flushes. “You were doing it just now.”

He frowns. “Was I?” Yet in his chest there is a sinking feeling, as he comes to understand that perhaps he has not hidden his thoughts as well as he imagined.

Interrupting his mounting consternation is Elizabeth’s voice. “There isn’t a girl, is there? Someone back in England?”

He looks at her so quickly that his neck burns. “No,” he tells her, entirely truthful, and has to smile. “No, I was ten years old.”

“Then what is it?” she demands, looking quite curious and more concerned than ever.

“Would you believe me,” he says, thinking fast, “if I told you that I have always wanted to be a tern?” He grins, forcing levity.

Her expression says clearly that she is not fooled. “You could tell me,” she says softly, “though I myself would rather be an albatross.” But she doesn't press for an answer, adding after a moment, “Or a sailor.”

Will clings to that in an effort to switch topics. “A sailor?”

“I want to see the water up close,” she tells him. Her voice has almost the same sly tone as before, but more earnest now. “And I want to lose sight of the land. Just me and a ship between the sea and the sky.”

Perhaps it's a mark of his own loneliness that he tells her, “So do I.” A breath passes between them. And then—“Ever since I left England I have wanted to be in a storm at sea. With the wind howling in the sails and the waves darker than the clouds. I want to taste the spray in the air.” The words are tumbling out of his mouth like a broken dam, like water over rocks, faster than he knows how to stop. Will bites his tongue hard. He has not told even James this before.

But Elizabeth smiles at him. “If you ever get your wish, I fear it would be rather less enjoyable than you make it sound.”

"I know." James has told him enough stories. And there he is, thinking of James again—one and the same, they seem to be, James and that great water, so twined in his thoughts that to wish for one is to wish for the other. James even mirrors the tide, coming and going like waves on a beach. Suddenly a wave of longing washes over Will, so strong he nearly buries his face in his hands—longing to see James, to hold him, to tell him that he must never go away again.

_My mouth is bound, my hands are tied, yet I love you—how is it that I can write here the words that stop my throat in the night whether you are near or not? Yet it is as true as the day I first came to understand the fact—I love you, as I have never loved anything else save the sea, and even in that I am not sure that the joy you awake in me is at all different from what I feel when I hear the sound of the waves. I love you so that I do not think I can bear it._

Will is dreaming of his parents when the creaking of hinges wakes him.

For several seconds he thinks it was part of his dream—he wanted so badly to see his mother again, to meet his father, that it would not surprise him were he to have conjured the sounds and forced himself into consciousness. But no: he hears quite distinctly now the bolting of the smithy door—then footsteps across the earthen floor below.

He can barely see on so cloudy a night, but he slips from the bed and moves quietly down the stairs, carefully skipping the steps that creak. The darkened smithy is nearly black—he shuttered the windows, he remembers, _why_ —so he relies on touch to find the hilt of the nearest sword and pull it noiselessly from its rack.

Whoever is in the smithy cannot see him either, nor do they know their way around in the dark as well as Will does; he can hear them fumbling around the anvil and walking into shelves as they pass. But they are coming closer. When the footsteps are just beyond arm’s length, he holds out the sword—his heart in his throat—and says, “Stop! I’m armed!”

The first response to these words is a colossal crash as the person falls into what sounds like the trestle table, toppling it and sending its contents flying. Then the person says, clearly, if somewhat out of breath, “My God, Will!”

It’s as if a fire has flared in Will’s mind. “James?” He drops the sword—it clatters to the ground—and steps over it, his hands outstretched. He finds a shape in the dark, James’s buttoned coat, and pulls him closer by the shoulders. They fall into each other all at once, without recourse: like waves against rocks.

“Did you miss me?” James murmurs, holding him so tightly that it’s nearly painful.

Will laughs; it comes out giddy. “Did I—?” He draws back slightly and passes his hands, which are shaking, over James’s face—he can’t see in the dark whether he is truly whole or not. “I ought to send you away simply for asking.”

Beneath his fingers, James smiles. “Well, you did try to run me through a moment ago.” He blinks and his eyelashes brush Will’s thumb. “Does that mean you’ve taken up the sword?”

“After a fashion,” Will says. “At least, I could most likely kill you now if needs must. So try not to say any more ridiculous things.”

James chuckles. “I’ll teach you. Then there will be no _most likely_ and you’ll be able to skewer me with impunity should I ever displease you.”

“Good,” Will says, and with James’s face between his hands he leans in and kisses him, lingering, feeling all that great distance melt away.

When dawn comes, Will keeps his eyes closed, not wanting to see that he is alone. He can see the strengthening sunlight through his eyelids and he knows that James will already be gone. Just as he is preparing at last to rise and dress and begin the day, he hears a quiet breath beside him.

He smiles. “You should go,” he murmurs, and curses his traitor mouth.

“I don’t want to,” James says.

His grin widens so that the words themselves sound stretched. “You’ll be missed,” he says. “You only returned yesterday. They’ll think it’s strange.”

There’s a pause. Then—“To hell with strange.” Soft fingers touch Will’s cheek. “Let them think it. They cannot lay claim to every inch of my life.”

“No one can,” Will sighs.

James’s lips brush his. “You can.”

Will opens his eyes. James smiles down at him. “I love you,” Will says. He is not sure if he has ever said it before.

He watches now as James’s face breaks open into blinding light and knows with certainty that he has not. James does not even move his hand to cover the expression, as is his wont, but kisses him again. He lays his head beside Will’s, and Will closes his eyes again, the better to enjoy their nearness. “I told you once,” he says, “that the most peaceful place I know is the prow of a ship on a windless day. Do you remember?”

Will does. He nods.

James traces patterns on his skin with the backs of his knuckles. “The man who said that was utterly ignorant,” he says. _“This_ is the most peaceful I’ve ever felt.”

Will feels as if his skin cannot possibly hold in all the joy he is feeling. He says softly, “I wish you wouldn’t.”

“What?”

“Say such things.” He is at a loss for words but he tries anyways. “And the poetry. I love it—I love to hear you say it—”

“Then why do you want me to stop?” James asks. He doesn’t sound offended, merely curious, slightly concerned.

“Because—it makes me feel too lucky,” Will says. Yes, that’s it. He keeps his eyes closed to avoid his own embarrassment. “You say such wonderful things and I cannot match them. I haven’t read any poetry. I do not know how to say the—the things you make me feel.”

He feels James turn toward him, hears him prop his head on one elbow. “Like what?”

Will fills his lungs and holds that breath, wondering if James is possibly deaf and did not hear what he just said. But in the end he tries to give words to the thoughts, because there is no other option, because James asked, because Will does not think he could ever deny him anything, much less in a warm bed with sunlight painting the back of his eyelids like flame. “When I hear the sea,” he says, “sometimes I want to leave all of this behind and become a different man, never again on land. It started when I left to find my father. Ever since, I’ve fancied there are sirens whose voices sound like waves. Eyes the color of the tide, hair like sea-foam.” He hesitates; his voice has dwindled to a whisper. “You make me forget all of that.”

When James is silent, Will opens his eyes to see him staring, mouth half-open, a faint flush rising in his cheeks. The dawn that was so bright before gilds his features and the air between them, turns the whole room to gold. “What?” Will asks, feeling his own face warm.

James shakes his head minutely. “And you say you don’t know poetry,” he breathes. Will can see it when he swallows. “Do you—do you mean it?”

They are so close that every breath is in both of their lungs. “What a foolish question,” Will says.

“Well, you do make me feel a fool,” James replies, his lips tugging into a gentle smile, “if only a lovesick one.”


	9. Passata-Sotto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Passata-Sotto: an evasive action made by dropping one hand to the floor and lowering one's body beneath the opponent’s blade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter comes to you from Germany! And due to the stresses of international travel/the holiday season, the next one may end up being slightly late, but only time will tell. If you're from where I'm from, I hope you're handling the sudden drop in temperatures all right!

“Careful,” James says, and smiles.

Will feels the sword jerk in his hand and hears it hit the ground three feet away before he realizes that he's no longer holding it. “That was a dirty trick,” he grumbles, going to pick it up.

“What?” James asks. When Will turns around, his face is completely composed, but his eyes glimmer.

“Don’t deny it,” Will says. He feels himself blush. “You know. Smiling like that. You meant to do it.”

James tilts his head to one side. “Do you mean to say you find my smile distracting?”

“So what if I do?” Will demands, though he can't quite keep from smiling himself. “If I'm fighting a pirate or—anyone, really—I’m not going to be thinking about their _smile,_ I'll be thinking much more practical thoughts about where to strike next.”

“Distraction is distraction,” James tells him. His voice is still light, but his expression is serious. “What if the pirate insults you, flashes a bright piece of metal in your eyes, throws sand in your face? You need to be ready.”

“Well,” Will says, but there isn’t really a response to that. He shrugs. “I’m working on it.”

“I know you are,” James replies. He raises his sword. “Shall we try again?”

Will nods and adjusts his grip. He is always torn now on days like this—between knowing that James is right, that it is all very useful, and even that he will be more secure in his own right because of it, and wanting nothing more than to throw away the swords forever. He does not know how long it will be before James must go away again, and he can hardly bear to concentrate on fighting.

He mentions it to James once, after much silent frustration. “It’s foolish, I know,” he says. “But you have just returned and it seems—I don’t know—ungrateful, almost, to spend so much time thinking of danger.”

James frowns. It is late in the evening and there is only a low-burning candle between them. “I know what you mean,” he says, “yet—perhaps it is simply because I have been trained to think so, but danger will come whether we think of it or not. I would rather be prepared.”

It is not at all the response Will had hoped for, though it is undeniably logical. “Of course,” he says, and can’t think of what to say next.

“You misunderstand me,” James says, sounding concerned; in the dim light, his eyes shine as he leans forward. “For me the choice is between happy oblivion and better chances of survival. That fight will come to you too. I am trying to help.”

“I know,” Will says. He does not like to see James so somber, so he reaches across the table and takes his hands. “And I want to learn. But I don’t want to think about what it means.”

James raises both of their hands together to his lips and kisses Will’s knuckles, then presses them to his cheek. “You’re going to have to,” he says.

And he is right. All too soon there comes another call and James sets sail again. It is a hurried, midday farewell, with only minutes to spare, and Will spends the following hour alone in the smithy slowly ruining a hook without realizing what he is doing. Then, as he has learned to do, he silences the part of himself that wishes for James and moves on.

Elizabeth distracts him. More and more, he finds he looks forward to her visits, more even than he did when they were children and he felt he would rather break his own back than spend another hour at the forge. Her quick words and sharp smile, her laughing eyes.

She appears one afternoon with a book clutched under her arm. “I simply want to read,” she tells him, “without being called upon for entertaining, or needlework.” She makes a face. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Well—no,” Will says, slightly taken aback, “but will you be able to concentrate? It’s not exactly quiet in here, you know.”

“Oh,” she says, waving a dismissive hand, “you’d be surprised what one can learn to ignore in years of tea with deaf old women. Don’t pay me any mind. I’ll just sit—here, I think—and you can carry on.” She sweeps over to the window, pulling a bench closer, and settles there with the book positioned on her brocade lap.

Though he feels rather bemused about the whole situation—surely there are better places to hide and read than a smithy?—Will can’t say that he’s disappointed. He picks up his chisel again and sets to work. After an hour or two, Elizabeth leaves, but she returns three days later, once again holding what looks to be the same volume.

“What kind of book is that?” Will asks, slightly out of breath, laying the hammer aside at last and turning from the anvil.

A moment passes before Elizabeth looks up from the page. “It’s a history,” she replies.

“A history of what?” Will prompts when it appears she doesn’t intend to say more.

For some reason, Elizabeth looks suddenly uncomfortable, to the point of glancing between the his face, the open book, and the dirt floor. Then she lifts her chin and meets his eyes again. “A history of pirates.” There’s a note of defiance in her voice.

It’s not the answer that Will expected—not that he had any idea what to expect—but now that she’s said it, he supposes that Elizabeth would hardly read anything else, and that he ought to have known. He’s still rather shocked. “Is it any good?”

She smiles at him, and he sees that she’s relieved. “Oh, yes,” she tells him. “It’s fascinating. I found it in my father’s library—he must have got it off one of the ships, it’s barely ten years old. So it’s a bit like reading a London newspaper, except it’s more complete.”

“But,” Will says, struggling, “it can’t be very pleasant, can it?”

Elizabeth blinks and frowns, tilting her head to one side. “Pleasant?”

“Well, I would expect such a book to be filled with all sorts of horrors. Pirates are not known for their gentle natures, after all.”

“Ah,” Elizabeth says, “I see what you mean.” The discomfort has come back into her gaze. “If that’s what you’re asking, then, no, it isn’t pleasant at all.”

It’s Will’s turn to frown. “Then why do you read it?”

She gives an impatient little tut. “Because it’s _real.”_ Then she shakes her head and turns away again, bending over the words, the matter clearly closed.

But after that, though little changes, she will sometimes read small passages aloud to Will if he’s doing something quieter like twisting wires or polishing. He wonders if it’s an attempt to convince him that her choice of reading material isn’t so odd—if so, it doesn’t work. But Will lets her do it, and even comes to enjoy the lines she picks, flattered that she thinks enough of him to try to change his opinion.

And then comes the day when the door bangs open, and before Will has time to turn and see who it is, strong hands have caught him up and James is kissing him. Will automatically closes his eyes, and when he opens them, James grins at him. “You know,” Will says, privately impressed by how steady he manages to keep his voice, “you ought to knock next time.”

“Is that any way to greet a weary sailor?”

“You didn’t leave me many options,” Will says, “coming in and ravaging me like that. It was a telling off or throwing something at you.”

James widens his eyes in mock horror. “Anything you threw at me in here would take my head off. Whatever would you do that for?”

“For taking so damn long,” Will tells him. He knows James has been away for longer in the past, remembers all too well the thin stretching of his soul with the distance between them—but in this moment all he can think is that they must never leave each other’s sight again.

“Well,” James says, “I’m here now.”

“I know,” Will replies, his voice no longer quite so steady.

There is a soft expression in James’s gaze as he looks at Will. “Hello,” he says at last, quietly, the smile crinkling the skin around his eyes.

Will swallows. “Hello.” It’s nearly a whisper. Will he ever tire of this nearness, he wonders, the exquisite tender touch between them? “I’m so glad you’re here,” he says. He doesn’t ask how long they have.

But he has few chances to see James over the next few days, and his thoughts turn seaward again: the future, unknown as the horizon, looms before them. Sure enough, within two weeks the ship weighs anchor once more. This time Will steels himself better.

He busies himself, finally, with beginning to work on the gaol bars. As soon as he does, he spots a problem that he hadn’t noticed in the preparations—namely, that they are far less secure than they ought to be. Will even goes so far as to take his concerns to the gaolkeeper, feeling that it’s an appropriate step in lieu of seeking audience with the governor, and is rebuffed with an order not to question those above his station.

“It’s beyond belief,” Will tells Elizabeth, who leans on the wall just inside the door and listens with an indulgent expression. “How are we supposed to sleep soundly in our beds when criminals can escape with the simple pull of a makeshift lever?”

“Surely it’s not as easy as that,” Elizabeth begins.

“But it is,” Will insists, unable to keep the heat out of his voice. “I tried to tell the gaolkeeper—it’s all in the hinges, I said—but he told me it was foolish, because—” he effects the rough, drawling voice of the offending party, _“—they’re unlikely to be applying benches to the bars, are they?”_

Infuriatingly, Elizabeth says, “Well, it does seem improbable,” clearly holding back a smile.

It’s this that douses Will’s temper. “Am I overreacting?” he asks, still irritated, but less distressed.

“No,” she says, “not at all.”

Perhaps it’s the fact that she is still trying to cover her mouth with her hand, but Will has a hard time believing her. “You don’t need to spare my feelings,” he tells her. “I really want to know.”

At this, she laughs outright, though not rudely. “I’m not sparing anything. You’re right to be upset.” She shakes her head. “It’s just—you may want to put on some clothes.”

“What?” Will realizes, in a moment of dismay, that he removed his tunic over an hour ago, to better stand the heat of the day, and that he is indeed wearing nothing but breeches and boots. “Good God,” he says, and lunges for his discarded shirt. By the time he has it on the right way, his face is flaming, but Elizabeth, mercifully, has controlled her expression. “A thousand apologies,” he says dutifully, though he’d prefer to ignore the whole thing, or better yet, hammer himself into some small and unrecognizable shape.

He isn’t sure if it’s good or bad that Elizabeth is not flushing at all. “Accepted,” she says. “Think nothing of it.” But the corner of her mouth twitches again. “I’m sorry no one is listening to you,” she tells him, sounding eager to move on, for which he’s grateful. “I can speak to my father about it if you’d like.”

“That’s kind of you,” Will says, more touched than he can express. He remembers how she interceded on his behalf before, after the pirate attack, and knows that she is a better friend than he will ever deserve. “Really,” he says. All words are inadequate. “But I had better ask him myself. That is—if you think he’ll listen.”

Elizabeth cocks her head to one side, considering. “I think so,” she says slowly. “He’s quite invested in the safety of the fort. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to be there when you visit. He may be more inclined to help if I am there.” It’s clear that she knows how valuable she is to her father—yet, for some reason, her tone is suddenly uncertain.

Will realizes all at once that it’s because of him: she doesn’t know if he will accept her offer. Only now does he understand that she was asking for permission, so at odds is it with everything he’s come to expect from her, and it takes him aback so that he gapes at her for a moment before recovering his wits enough to answer. “Of course,” he says quickly. “I’ll welcome any help I can get.” He thinks as the words leave his mouth that it may make him sound rude, as he has been before, as if he doesn’t value her highly enough—but she doesn’t seem to think of it that way.

“I’m happy to be of service, then,” she says, smiling widely. It’s a very different smile than the one she usually shows, somehow—softer, almost, with less of an edge. “When would you like to go? Now?” But the sharp-tipped expression comes back again as her eyes travel over his body, so that he isn’t sure if he imagined the difference or not. “Or perhaps tomorrow. Then I can let him know to expect you.”

“Er—” Will looks down, knowing what she sees: though he’s more fully clothed now, he’s still full of the dirt and sweat of the day, and he wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a streak of charcoal on his face from poring over design sketches. “I think tomorrow would be best.”

“Well, then,” she says, the old smile firmly back in place, “I suppose I will see you tomorrow. Try not to be too anxious about it in the meantime.”

To his credit, Will does try, though he’s a bit thrown—he wasn’t counting on such an important visit, and now he has to make room for it in his work, as well as account for the sudden onset of nerves that always comes with confronting the gulf between his station and that of the governor. It doesn’t help that he keeps returning in his mind to the supreme embarrassment of Elizabeth catching him half-naked; for some reason, the thought refuses to leave him, and he’s unable to figure out why—nor does he have time to spare for considering it.

Nevertheless, the morning dawns as it always has, and shortly after noon he gathers the relevant plans and sets out for the governor’s mansion. The butler looks frankly disgusted to see him without an invitation, but Elizabeth intercepts them as Will is being led to the parlor and tells the man that she’ll show him the rest of the way.

“He doesn’t like it when I do that,” she confides in hushed tones to Will as the butler leaves them, his square heels clicking reproachfully on the stone of the floor. “When I was a girl he’d tell me off about it, rather loudly. Now I can match his volume, so he just complains to my father later.” Her gaze holds that familiar mischief again.

Will can’t resist falling into it as he always used to, though lately he has felt too worn by care and worry to humor her overmuch: he supposes that even fear has its limits. “And what does your father do then?” he asks, walking beside her and one step behind.

“Oh,” she says, “nothing.” She laughs, apparently at some joke that only she finds funny. “I mean to say,” she explains, “he reprimands me, but he doesn’t confine me to my chambers. Not since I was twelve,” she adds, sounding almost disappointed. “In any case, even when I was younger, that sort of thing didn’t stop me.”

“Of course not,” Will says, smiling. “You probably beat on the door and walls the whole time, anyway, so they wouldn’t think you were going quietly.”

“The floor, too,” she adds. “With my fists.” She comes to a halt before a door that Will recognizes as the parlor. “I’ll go first,” she says, quite unnecessarily. Then she enters before Will can even hold the door open for her.

When Will follows, he finds the governor seated on the most sumptuous of the chairs and chaises, and makes a courteous bow before taking his own seat, so that Elizabeth is on his left, between himself and her father. He waits a moment, then realizes from the lengthening silence that he is expected to speak first. He scrambles to do so. “Your Excellency,” he says, “am I right in assuming that Miss Swann told you why I—”

“You are,” the governor replies, and though he’s interrupting, he doesn’t appear to be in any particularly bad temper. “I understand you have some concerns about the security of the bars you are creating.”

“Well, yes,” Will says, playing for time, uncomfortably aware that the governor’s wording has just placed the blame on him rather than the architect. “That is—I’m concerned about the plans. I’m afraid there may have been, er, oversights, particularly in relation to the hinges.”

Governor Swann frowns. “What’s wrong with them?”

“They’re half-pin barrel hinges, sir,” Will explains. “All anyone would need to do is find an appropriate source of leverage and—well, and put their backs into it, and the door would lift free.”

The governor looks at Will from beneath furrowed brows. “What sort of leverage do you mean?”

“Almost anything,” Will says. “A bench would do it,” he adds, thinking of what the gaolkeeper’s told him.

It’s a poor choice of words. “I hardly think,” the governor says, “that our prisoners—who, I might remind you, are divested of all their effects—will be in possession of anything fit for lifting doors from their hinges.”

“But sir—”

“Father,” Elizabeth says, throwing Will a warning glance, “I think we ought to listen to what Will is saying. If there is a chance that the gaol will be insecure, we must make sure to do away with that chance.”

“A very small chance,” Governor Swann says dismissively, “one that I doubt will ever be acted upon. As I said, we keep our prisoners’ things in custody—and besides, the greater part of our cells are unoccupied. Those captives we do have are lacking in the skill or intellect to devise such a solution.”

Elizabeth graces this reply with a moment of considering silence, then says, “But isn’t it better to be overcautious?”

“Quite the opposite.” The governor shakes his head. “Too much fear infects the people. We must remember that this expansion of the gaol is nothing more than a way to put an end to all the unease in the colony of late. There is no real danger.”

Biting his tongue so he doesn’t speak out of turn, Will glances at Elizabeth, but she looks as startled as he feels. She meets his eyes and in her expression he sees a kind of failing resignation. He knows then: they are already overruled.

Despite this, they both do their best to change the governor’s mind, but neither of them make any progress—Will, because he’s hindered by the bounds of politeness; Elizabeth, because her father appears barely to listen to anything she says. When he finally leaves them, she relieves the butler of his duty again to show Will to the door.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t more help,” she tells him. “If I can make him see sense in the coming days, I’ll be sure to tell you.”

“I appreciate that,” Will tells her, though privately he doesn’t expect her to have much success, and is more shocked at the governor’s ignorance than he would like to admit.

It seems Elizabeth shares his surprise. “I didn’t think he would be so resistant,” she says, “much less that he would outright deny the situation. I truly didn’t. Will—” She shakes her head. “I’m very sorry.”

She sounds and looks so agitated that Will stops and turns to her, though they are but a few paces from the door. “It’s all right,” he says. “He means well. I think he is afraid, more than anything else.” And, he reflects, he is no stranger to fear. Sometimes he feels that all his steps are shadowed. He can well understand the temptation to simply ignore it all.

“Yes,” Elizabeth says, “I think so too, but that’s no excuse.” She’s frowning now, less upset, but not at all soothed. “And I’m afraid as well—” Then she stops.

 _Afraid of what?_ Will wants to ask, and the question rises nearly to his tongue before he comes to his senses. It would be improper to ask, particularly when she clearly does not want to tell him. “You mustn’t be,” he says. She gives him a hard glance, clearly reproaching him for presuming to tell her what she can and can’t feel, but she must know that it’s meant in kindness, for she says nothing. “I’ll see what I can do to make the bars stronger in the meantime.”

“How daring of you,” she replies, a small smile now playing around her mouth—but Will can see that she believes what he knows: that there is little he or anyone can do when the men in power are so firmly set against the truth.

He musters a smile. “Thank you, in any case, for arranging this meeting—”

“No,” she rushes, “I hardly—”

“—did anything?” He gives her a disbelieving look. “Without you, I doubt I would have found the courage to seek an audience at all, much less voice any concerns when I came to it.”

It’s her turn to look dubious. “You’ve stood firm on such matters before,” she reminds him.

“Yes, but—” He stops, rather lost for words. How can she be unaware of the way she inspires him, makes him want to be brave? But it’s clear, as the silence left by his words stretches longer, that she has no idea. And he doesn’t know how to say what he means without sounding foolish, or worse, improper. So he pulls himself together. “Well, thank you again, Miss Swann,” he says, kisses her hand, and executes a crisp bow. “I’m in your debt once again.”

Though she appears somewhat confused, she smiles. “One would think you would count on it by now.”

“I do,” he replies. “Good day.” The butler opens the door rather eagerly and Will steps out into the unforgiving sun, feeling disappointed for a reason he can’t name—he knows only that it has nothing to do with the gaol bars.

When he returns to the smithy, he removes his stiff coat and takes down his satchel to review what he has left to do that day. Upon opening the thick ledger, a scrap of parchment falls out and flutters to the floor. Will retrieves it and sees words scrawled in a hurried hand:

_It seems I missed you. I’ll call on you at the usual hour tomorrow. Until then, be well. — J. N._

Brief as it is, the message sets Will’s heart pounding fit to burst, and as he’s alone in the shop, he doesn’t stop the smile that breaks across his face. He smoothes his fingers over the words as if they will impart some further news, feeling the place where the quill pressed more keenly into the parchment, resisting the urge to bring the note to his lips. He does press it to his chest, all his soul alive with the knowledge that James is near once again.

Needless to say, though he dutifully pores over the details of his ledger, he does very little work for the rest of the day. Every task he starts is simple enough, but Will’s thoughts continually take flight through the open window and wing their way across town to the fort, lifted on the fresh sea breeze, which tastes sweeter than it has in a fortnight.

By the time the sky darkens, he decides that further waiting is simply too torturous to endure. There is nothing for it: he slips a pistol into the large pocket of his coat, takes his satchel in hand, and douses the candle as he goes.

His walk to the barracks is unimpeded, and by the time Will reaches the door he has gathered enough courage to tell the cabin boy that Commander Norrington is expecting him. “No, no,” he says, “I know the way, there’s no need to show me.” This only sours the boy’s expression further, but fortunately he doesn’t argue.

Because the corridor is deserted, Will doesn’t knock when he comes to James’s door, but simply pushes it open and enters.

“Is someone there?” comes James’s voice from the adjoining chamber, and Will quietly shuts the door. He treads softly on the creaking floor and crosses to the other room, where he knocks against the wall. There is the sound of boots on wood and then James appears. His expression shows confusion, then an instant of shock, and then he smiles. “Will—” He laughs, a delighted, surprised sound that sends a shiver over Will’s skin. “What are you doing here?”

“I saw what you wrote,” Will replies, matching James’s hushed tone. “I couldn’t wait until tomorrow, I had to come.”

“I’m glad you did,” James says, but then he goes to the window and peers out into the night. He crosses quickly to the door and opens it, looking up and down the corridor before closing it again.

Will watches anxiously. “Are you?” he asks, suddenly uncertain. Perhaps it was foolish of him to come, to risk everything on his own whims.

James turns back to him. “Yes,” he says, and walks over to take Will by the shoulders. “You are the most wonderful sight I’ve seen in the last fortnight. I just want to be careful.”

“I understand,” Will says, because now that James has mentioned it, the shiver in Will’s skin has turned to something colder. “Are—are you sure I shouldn’t leave and wait until tomorrow? It’s only been a minute, no one would ask questions—”

“Did anyone see you come in?”

Will shakes his head.

“Then stay,” James says, “please.” He leans in and kisses Will sweetly, his mouth tasting faintly of wine, his hands soft as they travel down from Will’s shoulders to his waist, pulling him closer. He pauses. “Is there a pistol in your pocket,” he asks, “or are you simply pleased to see me?”

“Both,” Will laughs. He pulls away and takes out the flintlock, weighing the heavy metal in his hands. “I thought it best to have an excuse for visiting you, were someone to ask questions.”

James nods. “Clever.” He takes the pistol and puts it on the table, then wets his quill and scribbles something on a piece of scrap parchment. “It appears you’ve made a sale,” he says as he writes.

The sight of James in the low light, in his shirtsleeves rather than the usual stiff uniform, not even wearing any boots, is such a rare one that Will hardly listens. He instead steps closer and lays his hand on James’s back as he bends over the parchment, breathes in the scent of him.

“Your record for future payment,” James tells him, straightening up and handing over the note.

Will gives the words only a cursory glance before stuffing the parchment in his pocket. There is a wondrous, nearly painful feeling swelling inside him like a rolling wave; he kisses James on his cheek, his jaw, then simply embraces him. “I’ve missed you,” he murmurs, his lips pressed against James’s shoulder where his loosened collar falls aside.

“As have I,” James whispers back. Though his voice is quiet, his fingers run through Will’s hair and his body is warm and solid. “I’ll be back for some time now, though, so—”

“Truly?” Will says, remembering just in time to keep his voice lowered.

In answer, James holds him more tightly. “There are matters of business in the fort that must be attended to, while others go to sea.” There is a short pause. “Of course, it will keep me rather busy—”

“It’s all right,” Will says, “I understand—”

James pulls back slightly to look him in the eyes. “If I could be with you always,” he says, “I would, but my work will keep me away for days at a time—”

Will places a hand on either side of his face, silencing him. “I treasure every moment,” he says. “Is that not enough?”

“I simply want you to know,” James says, “that my absence will never reflect upon you. That nothing could change the way I feel about you.”

The late hour, the familiar closeness of their bodies—it all makes Will feel nearly dizzy, so that such a declaration seems all at once to be too much. “You don’t need to tell me,” he says. “I know it already.” He smoothes his thumb over James’s cheek. “I’ve known for months,” he murmurs, “years.”

He sees the light in James’s eyes, the sudden realization that it has indeed been nearly two years. He also sees the way James’s face holds a shadow of doubt. “How?” he asks.

Will smiles. “Because it is the same for me.”

Unsurprisingly, then, it is nearly a week before James is able to visit the smithy. When he does, he brings news of an unsettling nature. “I think,” he says, “that there is more to this posting than I have been told.”

“What do you mean?” Will asks, frowning at the cutlass he is polishing. “You think your superiors are keeping something from you?”

James hesitates before responding. “I’m really not sure,” he says at last. “I simply get the feeling that they are planning something. I keep hearing my name from behind closed doors.”

“That is rather mysterious,” Will agrees. Then, because James sounds slightly anxious, he adds, “I shouldn’t worry about it, though. It’s probably nothing.”

“You’re right,” James says with a short laugh. “I suppose I’m being a bit paranoid.” There is silence, punctuated only by the rasping of cloth over metal and the tapping of James’s mallet as he pounds holes in a pistol belt, just about the only unskilled task that Will has been able to find for him. Then he speaks again, his voice subdued. “There is always someone watching me.”

“What?” Will says sharply; the cloth drops from his fingers as he stares at James. “Watching you?”

“Oh—” James meets his gaze with wide eyes. “Not now. Only when I’m going about my usual business.” One corner of his mouth tugs into a smile. “Midnight visits to the smithy hardly count.”

It takes a great effort on Will’s part not to rise and lean out the window to check that the alley is clear, or to bolt the door more securely, even as James did at their last meeting. As it is, his pulse continues to pound in lingering alarm. “I see.” In an effort to calm himself, he asks, “What is it that you think they’re watching for?”

“Honestly,” James admits, “I don’t know.” He returns to making holes. “Perhaps Admiral Gillan is trying to make sure I don’t run off and turn pirate. It’s been known to happen.”

Will snorts. “You, pirate? That’s likely.”

“About as probable as a promotion, I would say,” James agrees dryly.

Once again, Will pauses in his polishing. “Have you done something wrong?”

“It seems so,” James tells him, “or I would hardly have such a persistent shadow, would I?”

“You’re young,” Will says. “There’s no need to be impatient about it. Didn’t you say you’re the youngest man of your rank in naval history?”

Because he is still watching James so intently, Will sees how he flushes. “Even so,” he says, acknowledging the fact with a dip of his head, “I did think I was doing quite well.”

Will lays the cutlass and polishing scrap to one side, intending to retrieve his ledger and check the details of the order one last time, but at the last moment he goes to James’s side and stands behind him, one hand on his shoulder.

James tilts his head back to look up at Will. “Have I ever told you how grateful I am to have you?” he asks.

“You may have mentioned it,” Will says, grinning.

Smiling back, James reaches up to cover Will’s hand with his own. “Would you mind terribly,” he asks, “if I were to say it again?”

And then, scarcely a fortnight later, James knocks on his door with wide eyes and a disbelieving smile. “Will,” he says, “Will—” and he kisses him there on the threshold, in full view of the deserted street.

Will pulls away at once and drags James inside by his wrists. “What on earth—”

“I’m sorry,” James says, but he hardly seems to mean it. “You were right, it wasn’t anything to worry about—”

“What are you talking about?” Will demands.

“But I was right, too, you see,” James continues, “because they _were_ keeping something from me—”

“Who?” Will asks, and remembers as soon as he says it, the old conversation resurfacing from beneath the daily events of the intervening time.

It doesn’t matter, as James doesn’t pause to answer him. “I’m going to be a captain,” he says excitedly.

Will stares, more than a little baffled by this strange, wild James. “You’re drunk,” he says, realizing the truth even as the words leave his lips.

“Well, yes,” James laughs, seeming slightly embarrassed.

“You don’t usually drink, even to celebrate.” Will sits him down on the bench, since James appears content to simply stand and sway like a ship loosed from her moorings, and it makes Will anxious in a place filled with sharp objects. “Why have you tonight?”

James shrugs. “I can’t recall. I expect that was the point,” he adds, appearing troubled for the first time, but only for an instant—his expression clears, and he smiles. “Did you hear what I said?”

“Yes,” Will says, “you’ll be a captain.” Then it hits him, and he smiles too in spite of his bewilderment. “So you’ve been promoted after all!”

“Isn’t it glorious?” James laughs again, a great rolling sound that fills all the space between them.

In the morning, Will is washing his face with cool water from the basin when he hears James stir behind him. “Feeling all right?” he asks, turning, doing his best to keep any bite from his tone.

“I’ve felt worse,” James tells him, sitting up. He squints in the pre-dawn gloom but doesn’t appear hungover, and rises without any unsteadiness. When he approaches Will, his expression is rueful. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I should not have visited in—such a state.”

“I’m more worried about the view the neighbors may have had,” Will replies, and hears the hard edge creep into his voice despite his best efforts.

“I know,” James says, and his eyes are troubled. “It’s inexcusable.”

“Well.” It’s difficult for Will to stay angry when James is so clearly full of remorse. More difficult than he had expected. “I don’t think anyone was about.”

“I hope not.”

Will sighs, struggling to throw off the weight of concern: for himself, for James, for what they share. “At least you’ll be made Captain.”

This only makes James’s expression darken further. “As a matter of fact,” he says heavily, “I haven’t been promised anything yet. Admiral Gillan simply—hinted.”

“Oh.” Will frowns. “Then—then why were you drinking, if not in celebration?” He remembers the last time he saw James drunk, on what has since come to feel like both the best and worst night of his life. He’s disturbed to think that James could be driven to the same desperation again—if he called himself a murderer then, what could possibly be the matter now?

James’s mouth twists. “There are conditions for that promotion.”

“What sort of conditions?” Will asks, not sure he wants to know the answer.

But James gives him a small smile, as best he can around the grimace. “More of the same, unfortunately. Work in the fort. I will be very busy.”

Will waits for further explanation, but when none is forthcoming, he says, “You told me that weeks ago. I don’t see why it’s any worse now than it was then.” It’s as if there’s a part of the conversation that he has missed, something to make James so upset, a vital piece of information that he’s lost without.

There is a long pause, during which Will watches the very beginning of dawn thread through the sky outside the window. “I hate to do this,” James tells him at last. “To leave you, when I already see you so rarely, and to know that—that I will always see you less than before.”

“Don’t say such things,” Will says, an ache in his chest, reaching out to lay one hand against James’s cheek as if that will make the words untrue. “We’ll make it all right.” A hazy memory surfaces, soft as sea-foam. “I can bear it if you can.” He gazes at James with an unasked question burning in his throat: _can you?_

Clutching his hand, eyes still clouded, James seems to answer in the press of his fingers, though he says nothing. The sound of gulls comes in from the waves.

“You ought to go,” Will says at length, though it kills him to speak the words. “You’ll never become a captain if you’re late.”

Amazingly, James chuckles, turning his head to brush a kiss over Will’s knuckles. “I’ll visit later,” he says. “Perhaps tonight. I may not be able to stay long, but I will come.”

“So long as you return again after that,” Will says, and hands him his boots. When James takes them, their fingers brush.


	10. Passé

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An attack that passes its target without hitting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is also coming to you from Germany! And it happens to be both the longest and most quickly-written chapter yet, so make of that what you will.
> 
> "The True Lover's Farewell" is not a sea shanty, but I don't care. It's also known as "The Turtle Dove," "Fare Thee Well," and "Ten Thousand Miles." You can listen to some excellent versions of it [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ygOVV_4tyhw) (personal favorite), [here,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AqpCt3leKMQ) and [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cEKY0roeaAQ) Full lyrics are [here.](http://www.contemplator.com/england/truelov.html) Enjoy!

**1738**

 

It takes Will several moments, or perhaps even minutes, to realize that he is awake. Time stretches out on an endless peaceful wave, in a night-cooled room, the air smelling of salt, and the music continues—the music is what does it. For there has never been anyone singing in the smithy before.

He lies still with his eyes closed, listening to the tune, which is unfamiliar. The voice—clearly belonging to James—rises and falls, a melancholy strain. It sounds like some far-off call that the sea-breeze might carry. But his breathing must give him away, for the song suddenly breaks off. “Don’t stop,” Will murmurs.

There is a pause, and then James speaks, very near. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says. When Will cracks open one eye and doesn’t see anyone, he knows that James must be behind him. Sure enough, barely a heartbeat later, the rough mattress shifts with the weight of another body.

“I liked it,” Will tells him.

“You did?”

“Is it so hard to believe?” Will twists his head around and sees James gazing at him, hardly more than a shadow. “I couldn’t catch the words, though.”

Feather-light, James brushes Will’s hair behind his ear. He takes what seems a shivery breath, then sings softly, “The crow that is so black, my dear, shall change his color white…” James’s fingers move to cover Will’s shoulder, where his hand rests, a warm weight. “And if ever I prove false to thee, the day shall turn to night, my dear,” he murmurs, “the day shall turn to night.” He brushes his lips to Will’s bare throat as if to press the words into his skin.

Will melts beneath his touch. “Lovely,” he breathes, smiling, and James tugs on his shoulder until he rolls over and can be kissed properly. For a few minutes he is lost in the tangling of James’s fingers in his hair, the close embrace of their bodies. But when they break apart, pressed against each other in the narrow bed, Will says, “I didn’t know you liked to sing.”

James shifts beside him. “Some of the men sing to keep together at sea. It’s nothing more than that.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Will insists, but because James sounds too uncomfortable for so sweet an evening, he lets the matter lie. “What is that song called?” he asks.

“The True Lover’s Farewell,” James says.

“It seems a dreary song to sing on long voyages,” Will replies. “Isn’t it disheartening?”

“At times,” James admits. “But some sailors find—and I speak from experience—that it’s rather more unbearable not to speak of the ones we love, even if they are far away.” His breath tickles Will’s skin as he sighs. “Singing is a poor substitute, all the same.”

It makes Will’s heart flutter in his chest to hear the roughness of his voice. He pulls James closer, though they are already so close they all but share a skin, and kisses him long and slow. “We’re both here now,” he says. “Don’t think on it.”

He feels it when James smiles, lips curving against Will’s own. “That’s simple enough,” he murmurs. “When you’re beside me, I see nothing else.”

After James leaves, with the sky not yet light, they do not have another chance to speak to each other for several days. They have been separated for far longer before, yet it pains Will to know that James is only on the other side of the town rather than over the horizon. He finds that this is worse, somehow, than a great distance: to be so near and still unable to meet.

And he cannot even find time to see Elizabeth, so busy has he become with his work. More and more weapons, chiefly swords—the order from Admiral Gillan is only half complete. On top of that, the gaol bars. It turns out that he cannot alter the construction of the hinges without abandoning the current plans completely, and as he’s received no word from the governor, Will has no choice but to continue with the flawed design. In a final effort to allow for a change of heart, he works as slowly as he can, but it’s difficult, knowing that each day brings greater risk of another attack.

“Just tell me,” Will says to James, sitting down to the grindstone to sharpen his sword—the most plausible excuse for a daytime visit, and the simplest—“how much danger are we in?”

James frowns. “It’s difficult to say. We’ve had few reports of any importance from those ships that are on the most dangerous routes.” He raises his voice over the sound of the wheel. “That doesn’t mean a great deal, nor is it particularly reassuring, but for now we can do nothing but stay the course.”

“What does the Admiral have to say on the subject?”

“He thinks we should double patrols.” James shakes his head. “We’re hard-pressed for men as it is, so there’s a lot of opposition.”

Will pauses, lifting the blade, and the noise of grating ceases. “I am—not a military man,” he says, “but—can he not simply do as he pleases? Is there no chain of command?”

With a wry smile, James says, “There is. But pressing greater numbers into harder service runs the risk of turning men against the navy—turning them to piracy. Most of these criminals, you know, were once honest men, beset by grim circumstances.”

Recalling the passages that Elizabeth has shared with him, Will nods. “So he cannot even give the orders he knows would help the most.” Something in James’s face makes him wonder—“What do you think about it?”

James snorts. “He hardly asks for my opinion on the matter.”

“I’m not the Admiral,” Will says, “and I _am_ asking.”

“Well,” James begins, drawing out the word, “I think that we have no choice but to risk it, if we want to prevail.”

“You should tell him that,” Will says. “It might help you gain your captaincy.”

James looks uncomfortable. “You don’t want me to tell him,” he says. The air of the smithy is still and his words have a curious, flat sound. “More patrols mean fewer men for the fort.”

“Yes, but I can fight now,” Will says, brandishing the sword he’s still holding. “I’m in less danger than before.”

“No,” James says, and sighs. “No, I mean that if I support the patrols, then I will have to lead one, or at least take part, captain or not.” He meets Will’s eyes, and the expression in his own is dark. “There’s no telling how long I’d be gone.”

“Oh,” Will says, and it’s more of a huff of breath than a word, startled out of him. Then he masters himself. “This is rather more important than what I might feel,” he says, “both for your career, and for the entire colony. As long as you return, I’ll wait.”

James holds his gaze for a moment, then looks away. “I don’t—”

“Tell him,” Will insists. It goes against his heart, which screams in protest and aches already, but he recalls what James once said: that nothing would ever come between them. This will not be their end, he tells himself, and beyond these months they will have a future.

But when Elizabeth visits the next week, she, too, laments the lack of defense.

“Has your father said anything?” Will asks. “As governor, surely he has some influence.”

She shakes her head. “He still refuses to recognize the danger. And yet—I think he does know, truly, what we face, for he will offer no support for any course of action. He is simply too frightened of what the truth will mean to admit that any of this is happening.”

“It’s somewhat confounding,” Will says without thinking, but even as he realizes his insensitivity, Elizabeth looks to him questioningly, so he must continue. “That is—before, when I spoke with your father, he seemed a reasonable man, intent on doing what he could to help. When he first gave me the plans for the gaol, he was—forgive me, but he was not so blind as he is now.”

Elizabeth lets out a long sigh, and though her expression is hard, she doesn’t contradict him. “I have heard what the other men say to him,” she says. “I do not envy his position: caught between his obligation to the people, his responsibility to the crown, and the problems of a war he can’t fight himself. And beneath it all, the knowledge that he might take the right course of action and die nevertheless, or be deposed. Or that the colony will burn around him.” She looks at her hands, at the ground, and then at Will. “If I were my father, I can imagine that blinding myself would be very tempting.”

 _But you wouldn’t do it,_ Will wants to say—he swallows the ugly words. In her gaze, he sees something that he has rarely seen in the past: her love for her father. As much as she might detest his actions or deplore his weaknesses, she loves him, suffers for him. There is nothing he can add in the face of that. So he says, “How do you hear what’s said? Do you sit in on their meetings?”

She passes a hand over her eyes. “No,” she says, “I listen at the keyholes.” Then, as if she can hardly help herself, even when she is so clearly weary in body and spirit, she cuts him a keen-edged smile.

“As I expected,” Will says, returning it. But being looked at in that way, he can believe that she hears his own thoughts as well, and though he’s thinking of nothing particularly incriminating at the moment, he feels himself flush.

Elizabeth doesn’t appear to notice. Her smile fades, and she sighs again. “I left all my life behind when we set sail for this new world,” she says, with a hint of humor as she adds, “so you truly are my oldest friend in the world.”

Caught unaware, Will blinks. “You’re mine as well,” he replies. Salt in his throat, brown curls, dark and questioning eyes—it’s a moment he knows will never leave him.

With a little nod, Elizabeth looks down. “I’ll tell you, Will—I am afraid.” Her voice drops lower. “Are you?”

Will is afraid, like thunderclouds on the horizon, like rocks beneath the waves, but perhaps he is blind in his own way—he doesn’t want to give his fear a voice. “Whatever happened to your book?” he says. “I thought you loved adventure.”

“I’d sooner survive it,” she confesses. She twists her hands in the fabric of her dress, then suddenly clasps them tightly together in her lap, as if only just noticing what she’s doing. “Do you know—” She leans in closer. “Some of the sailors have been talking. They remember what happened in Charles Town—”

“That was twenty years ago,” Will interrupts.

“Yes, but with Porta Maria fresh in everyone’s mind, can you blame them?”

It makes him sick to say the words, but he cannot say otherwise. “No,” he says, “I suppose not.”

The moment hangs between them, the silence swelling like a too-small water-skin, and Will wonders if they will sit here forever, turned to statues by their fear. The rising sea will swallow the town and rub them smooth, wash away their faces, until they resemble marble pillars beneath the waves. He cannot even say why he suddenly feels this way—not simply frightened, but terrified, filled with dread.

And then—and then the moment passes when Elizabeth speaks, in a soft voice, but clear. “I had a grandfather who fought the Spanish, many years before I was born. When I was young I would awake in the night storms and find him sitting in the library, reading as the rain lashed the windows and the thunder roared so loudly the house seemed to shake.” She gazes at nothing as if she sees that house before her now. “I asked him how he could be so calm when it seemed that the timbers might all give way and the flood would carry us out to sea.”

“What did he say?” Will prompts, when her words trail away and her voice fades.

She looks at him. “He said that if he had to do battle with Zeus, he would prefer to read quietly. He said the storm would find him whether he wanted it to or not.”

Will can’t help but imagine it: an old man sitting in a darkened, tall-windowed room, stirring neither for the bolts of lightning nor the howling wind, but for the little girl who tugs on his sleeve. The old soldier, waiting, calmed not by resignation but by acceptance. “Wise words,” he says.

She smiles. “Perhaps—and yet it had been nearly a decade since the war, and he still kept his sword sharp.”

The next weeks pass without event, with barely a word from James—he is busy, Will knows, and waits, though as each day closes his heart is more pained. He busies himself as well: he completes an order of nails, forges carriage springs for Lady Cosgrove’s coach, receives a supplement of welding sand from the docks. Transferring the latter to his own sacks is a difficult process, and the heat of the day is such that he removes his tunic for the task, bolting the door before he does so—he does not want another embarrassment.

Of course, as luck would have it, he is still interrupted.

“Mr. Turner,” calls a voice, hardly audible over the sound of rushing sand.

His breathing slightly heavy from exertion, Will drags the sack back up and sets it aside. “I beg your pardon,” he says, scrambling for his shirt, “I wasn’t expecting—”

“Please don’t,” says the voice, more quietly now and sounding very familiar.

Will freezes with his vision obscured, the cloth tangled about his head. He rips the shirt off again and turns to the door, but it’s still closed: no one is there. He looks immediately to the window—and there is James, leaning on the sill.

“Don’t clothe yourself on my account,” James continues. His grin is wicked.

There is sand on Will’s hands. He walks closer, dusting his palms on his trousers, and James takes a step back as he approaches the window. Will braces himself on the rough wood, looking down, slightly above the level of the street. “What can I do for you today, sir?”

James’s eyes travel over Will’s body, his gaze appreciative. “I cannot stay long, but I come bearing news,” he says. His voice is bursting with barely-contained excitement. “Admiral Gillan informed me this morning that, barring any disasters, I will be made a captain in three weeks’ time.”

For a moment, Will can only stare. “Truly?”

“Truly,” James says.

“But—” Will frowns. “What do you mean by disasters?”

James shrugs. “Anything that might call for a larger force. An attack in another colony, a shipping accident. The ceremony would have to be postponed. But that is unlikely.” His smile transforms to something brighter, making his eyes shine. “I can hardly believe it.”

“You shouldn’t be surprised,” Will tells him. “I suppose you suggested the doubled patrols?”

“I didn’t,” James replies. Under Will’s questioning look, he explains, “I couldn’t find a good time. And it seems to have been unnecessary, in any case.”

“You’ve been making an impression for years now, clearly.” Seeing the joy writ plain on James’s face, Will feels a twinge of something darker, like a spot of black on his heart, and is troubled. Oughtn’t he to be proud? And he is—but he also aches, for a reason he can’t identify and does not want to examine. “It’s about time the Admiral did something about it.”

“But—” James shakes his head. “I did not ever think I would make it this far,” he confesses. “I am so different from my peers, different from the officers. I am no longer noble—my father’s land is all but gone—I have no wife, nor property to speak of in the world. No one would think to—”

“Stop that,” Will interrupts, a pang of another kind throbbing through the meat of his heart. “They’re promoting you because of those very differences, you know. It’s what sets you apart.” He feels his face warm. “It’s why I love you.”

Though the words are barely even a whisper, James clearly understands; his smile softens and the light in his eyes warms. He takes a step forward, back to the edge of the window, and Will sees his gaze flicker up and down the narrow alley. Then he reaches out and up, to rest his hand against Will’s cheek and gently tug him down. “You,” he begins, his eyes roaming over Will’s face. Then he sighs, and simply leans in to kiss him.

It is only a brief embrace, but the heat of it leaves Will short of breath again. He stares as James glances over his body once more, flashes him another wide grin, and walks off, whistling.

That afternoon, Will is etching a design in the blade of an ornamental sword when he hears the door open, hinges squeaking slightly. He looks up to see Elizabeth, and spares a moment to be thankful that he has indeed donned his shirt again. “Good day,” he says, smiling as she comes in. He notes that she carries her pirate book in her arms. “You must be nearly done with that by now.”

“Yes, I am,” she says, sounding slightly mournful of the fact. “I don’t know what I’ll do with myself when it’s over.”

As she draws up the bench to the window, Will thinks of inviting her to visit again, with or without the book, but stops himself. It would be the height of impropriety, and besides, he imagines it goes without saying. Upon realizing this, he feels that with the news from James as well, it has been a perfect day. He smiles to himself and leans over his work again.

Nearly an hour goes by in companionable silence before Will looks up from the metal in search of a more precise tool and happens to glance over at Elizabeth. For an instant he is struck by the beauty of the scene, like a painting: the sunlight streaming in through the window turns her dark red dress the color of wine, sets her skin aflame, burnishes the ringlets of her hair to gold. She is bending over the book, her fingers absently running along the binding as she reads, utterly absorbed, and does not notice his gaze.

Watching her, he thinks of how he hung out of that very window earlier in the day and kissed James in it—kissed James and did not want for anything. There is only one other person who makes him feel so complete, he realizes, and she is sitting in front of him. The moment stretches on as he thinks through what he is telling himself, and arrives at the truth: he is in love with Elizabeth Swann.

In something of a daze, Will reaches for the smaller chisel and sets it against the blade, but pauses again before striking. The revelation is not enormous in itself—it feels as if he has always known, and he supposes he has—but seeing Elizabeth sit at the window makes him think of James, and his heart begins to ache fiercely. Is it possible to love two people at once? Is he fickle, is he wicked? He taps the mallet too hard and the chisel skitters away, leaving a gash in the blade that is crooked and wide.

At the noise, Elizabeth looks over. "Is everything all right?"

"A simple mistake," Will lies, gazing fixedly at the now-ruined sword, gripped by a fear that she will read his thoughts if he meets her eyes.

Though he bids her good day as the sun is setting, Will doesn't let the forge cool until well past midnight. He is so exhausted by that time, his whole body a collection of sore spots and heavy bones, that he falls asleep immediately and does not dream.

All through the next days, Will works in a haze of indecision. He feels as if a mass with the weight of his anvil has landed on his chest. For he cannot court Elizabeth, as a blacksmith’s apprentice with no name or family to speak of: it would be unconscionable, and even if he managed to keep his position, he finds it highly unlikely that she—or her father—would be agreeable.

Besides—besides, he reminds himself every hour, he loves James. This is as true as it has ever been, and beyond a shred of doubt Will knows that he could never betray James in such an awful way. He does not want anything more than to love James and be loved by him—even in the dark, as they are forced to love, and even though their meetings have become few and far between.

He does not know what to do—that is all. It would be easier to cut out his troublesome heart than to stop seeing one or the other of them, and yet he cannot in good conscience let this—whatever it is—continue. He cannot see a way around any of it, so Will works himself into a stupor where he needs to think of nothing other than the heat of the forge, the heft of the hammer. The gaol bars are half finished by the day that James appears in his doorway, a week before his scheduled promotion, a look of abject misery on his face.

“What is it?” Will asks, drawing him inside and bolting the door against the night.

James sinks onto the bench and looks as though he is barely resisting the urge to bury his face in his hands. “I’ll not be made a captain,” he says, then adds, “at least, not within the year.”

“Why not?” Will demands, and takes James’s hand, spurred on by the hopelessness in his voice. “I thought it was going well—”

“It was,” James says. “Everything was in place.” He does not seem to see what he’s looking at as his gaze wanders over the shadowy forms of blades, tools, and measures on the walls. “The colony of Virginia has been attacked. They expect another.”

Will stares. “Virginia,” he repeats. The name is unwelcome on his tongue. Already he knows what James will say—

“They leave in a fortnight.” James passes his free hand over his eyes. “The minimum time needed to gather men, ammunitions, ships—then they weigh anchor.”

“Virginia is so far,” Will says, feeling the words sound a hollow chord in his chest. “And do you know when you—” He stops short. “They?”

“I am not to go,” James says. His voice is bitter, his eyes without light. “The orders have gone to others, not to me.”

“So—so why is this bad news?” Will asks. All he knows is that James will not leave, that he will stay safe. It sounds to him like a miracle.

But James waves a hand dismissively. “They will not promote a man who sits idly by in the face of danger. And even if the shame were not so great, I cannot be appointed to any position when my commanding officers are away at sea. Truly,” he adds with a humorless laugh, “I deserve it. Did I not say that such an event was unlikely? Fate is mocking me.”

“Don’t,” Will says, nearly gasps, all at once aware that everything is about to crumble. “Perhaps there is a way you can remain here and do something else to gain your captaincy. This can’t be the end.”

“It isn’t,” James says, “I know I will have other chances, but—I have worked so hard”—he hits the palm of his hand against the table, his words like sharpened steel—“and now, to know that I have still somehow failed—”

Will takes his other hand, feeling at an utter loss in the face of such despair. “What could you possibly have done?” he asks, pleading for reason.

“It cannot have been _nothing,”_ James says, suddenly quieter, which is almost worse. “Perhaps I have—overlooked something, shirked some unseen duty—perhaps it is just my fortune.” He shrugs, and his hands in Will’s are listless. “Who can tell?”

It is unbearable, Will thinks, to sit here and comfort James when he himself has fallen for another—to try his best to help, when all he has been doing is making things worse. A sick feeling churns in his stomach. It does not make matters better to know that if James were to get his wish, and be sent off to Virginia to fight, he would be away for months. A horrible thought strikes him: that there would be no telling whether he would ever return at all. Will sighs and grits his teeth. “I am sorry,” he says. He knows the words should have been the first out of his mouth. He squeezes James’s hands. “I wish there were something I could do.”

James gives him a tormented and wretched look. “Thank you,” he says, nearly whispering. The air between them is fraught, but he appears to truly see Will now, for what feels like the first time since he came in. “I know this is difficult,” he says. “You would prefer that I stay—”

“No—” Will lies, stricken, dropping his gaze. It makes his face burn to know that James is the one to confront this—that he is even now attempting to comfort Will—“I want you to do well,” Will insists.

“I know you do,” James says. There is the beginning of something softer in his eyes, though all his face remains etched with pain. “That does not make it any easier.”

For a moment, Will does not trust his voice. He swallows. “So what will you do?”

James lets out a long, slow sigh, and the air clears somewhat—or perhaps Will only hopes that it does. “I will think of something,” he says. “And if nothing comes to mind—I will wait, and try again.” He purses his lips. “I will do what is necessary.”

When James leaves, in the early hours of the morning, he appears slightly more hopeful. He presses a kiss to Will’s lips before he goes, and lingers, his fingers clenching in the fabric of Will’s shirt just before he pulls away. It is still dark enough that Will loses sight of him before he rounds the corner.

Will could nearly weep with the tempest tossing in his chest. He knows now, this cannot continue—the guilt all but rips him apart, and the thought of the pain it would cause James were he to learn of Will’s feelings for Elizabeth is unthinkable. Somehow, he must put an end to things as they are—but what is he to do?

He goes to the docks to collect orders from newly-docked ships, but he is too early and has to wait. He roams the wet boards, watching the crews climb the rigging to stow the sails. Far up the mast, they look like birds. One ship is farther along than the others, and her men are beginning to remove cargo: huge barrels, filled with fish, and massive bundles of lumber. As they work, they sing, and heave their load in time with the song.

A strain of the music reaches Will— _The river will never run dry, nor the rocks melt with the sun_ —and he recognizes the melody. It brings the memory of a hazy morning before the light, with warmth on his skin and a sweet voice in his ear. _And I’ll never prove false to the one I love till all these things be done, my dear,_ the crew sings, _till all these things be done._

And it comes to Will that he has no choice, that he has never had a choice. He cannot be so faithless to James. As much as it pains him, he will have to do away with his hollow-hearted thoughts. There is no other way for him to be true to himself and to those he loves—both of them.

He is spared from acting, however, for the next evening it is not Elizabeth who visits, but James. Will admits him and they spend several minutes simply talking of matters of little importance: the day’s news, an order for several new pulleys from one of the docked ships, a fight James witnessed between a butcher and a dog who ran off with half a lamb’s leg. The conversation is light, yet Will keeps listening for some hint of the morose tone with which James spoke the last time he visited.

But though James smiles less easily, he does not seem outright miserable anymore. They lapse into silence after a while, Will distractedly sketching pulley designs on a scrap of parchment while James stares into the candle flame, turning a chain link over and over in his hands.

As the minutes stretch on, Will's guilt grows. He is half afraid that James will sense his thoughts. “I want to practice with the sword more,” Will says at length. He does mean it—but he also simply wants to silence the part of himself that can hardly endure sitting peacefully, as though he has done nothing wrong.

“So you do want to talk about it now?” James asks, gently teasing. “It’s not ungrateful?”

Will knows why James finds it amusing—ever since he expressed a dislike for spending their limited time together always looking to the future, they have left the subject more or less alone, and have hardly mentioned fighting at all. “You were right,” he says with a shrug. “We can’t stop whatever comes.”

James gazes at him for a few seconds, his expression appraising, and somehow dark, as if he doesn’t like to be reminded. Will can sympathize with that. Then he seems to shake whatever thoughts are occupying him, and nods. “Very well. Shall we see how you’re doing?”

Because it is so late, they do their best to avoid sparring, lest the noise of clashing blades attract attention. Instead, James tests him on his footwork, and shows him common patterns of blocks, thrusts, and parries—the kind of thing Will has observed from a distance in the training yards, but has never been close enough to understand.

“Even just an hour or two a day will help,” James says. “You can practice them on your own.”

Will thinks of all the work he has to do and feels exhausted at the very notion. But he will find the time, he knows—because he must, because James asked. “And also when you are here, surely,” Will replies, “to tell me if I am doing something wrong.”

James smiles. “Of course,” he says. “But from how far you’ve come already, there won’t be much to correct.” Then his mouth twists. “And it is difficult to say how often I will be here, in any case.”

“Yes,” Will sighs, “that’s true.” He wonders if James is forcing optimism, given his recent change in prospects, but he doesn’t say anything—the last thing he wants is to dredge up those sorrows when the evening has been going so well. He stays silent, and takes comfort in the fact that James will stay. He will be here.

But after James leaves the smithy, Will is alone with his thoughts again. He rises the next morning fully intending to simply avoid Elizabeth as long as he can and hope that she doesn't visit. Naturally, therefore, she appears on the threshold that afternoon, and Will, defenseless as always in the face of her smile, welcomes her in.

As she reads, he berates himself for that, though he doesn't know how he could have turned her away without causing offense—yet he is unprepared to have the sort of conversation that appears imminent. And it occurs to him that there may be no way to avoid offense no matter what he does or doesn't say.

He feels as if his anxiety is spreading through the smithy, and sure enough, Elizabeth sets her book aside after several minutes. “Is something wrong?” she asks.

Will delays by paying meticulous attention to a tiny scuff mark on the pommel he is polishing. At last he looks up. “I'm simply wondering,” he says, with a sense that he is stepping off the edge of a cliff, “whether this is wise.”

“Whether what is wise?”

“This,” Will repeats, reluctant to put it into words; he sighs. “Visiting here. Spending so much time—” He stops. It seems ridiculous to say _with me,_ though it isn’t inaccurate.

Elizabeth frowns as if she knows what he means. “Have we discussed this before?” she asks. “It sounds familiar.”

“Yes,” Will starts, he knows what she is talking about—

“I seem to remember you telling me that we were quite improper,” she says with a hint of a smile. “Yet here we are.”

Will tries not to wring the polishing cloth with his nervous hands. “It is still improper,” he says. “Your father would disapprove.”

She rolls her eyes. “Then we're lucky he doesn't know, are we not?”

“That won't last forever,” Will points out. “You are not invisible, especially not here. Someone will see—in all likelihood, someone has already seen, and eventually they are going to say something about it.”

“Those are quite a lot of general terms,” Elizabeth says. “Someone, eventually, will say something. Perhaps.”

Striving to keep the irritation out of his voice—perhaps, he thinks, it would be easier to take her arguments in stride if he were not forcing every word from his own mouth—Will says, “We can’t depend on ‘perhaps’. I don’t—I don’t want you to be hurt.” For it has come to him, in the long hours he has spent in agonizing indecision, that their very association comes with dangers, regardless of his own feelings. He seizes the excuse now; it is not even far from the truth, he realizes—he would never willingly cause her misfortune.

Though there is a softness around her eyes that suggests she understands this, her response is decidedly sharp. “I’ll decide what hurts me, if you don’t mind.”

It must be awful, Will thinks suddenly, to have one’s life be so utterly controlled that an attempt to help is unwanted. He can hardly believe that he has been on the wrong side of this understanding in the past, that he ever tried to hem her in by using her for his own purposes—one might as well attempt to chain the sea. “Give it some thought, then,” he says.

He tries not to be too pleased with himself that she appears to do just that. Though she opens her mouth to respond with what looks to be something biting, she pauses, and what finally comes out is less so. “It’s a risk,” she admits, “but aren’t all the best things worth that?”

Thinking of James, Will cannot help but agree. And how dearly he would love to brave the danger, as he has been doing for years—if only it were not his heart and loyalty at risk. “What of when you marry,” he insists, “and all anyone can think of is that you once had _demeaning dalliances_ with a blacksmith’s apprentice?”

Her expression darkens as she recognizes her father’s words. “I don’t give a damn,” she says, unblushing, defiance strong in each syllable. But then she is silent, and he can see that she is considering. Her eyes roam over the smithy: it must be nearly as familiar to her now as it is to Will. Eventually she sighs. “All the same,” she says quietly, “perhaps I am being selfish. Perhaps I am not the only one who stands to lose.”

Will meets her gaze and realizes that she means him—that she is worried about _his_ reputation. He does not remember if she has ever said anything like this before, and it nearly breaks his resolve. As it is, he has to look away. “I would not say that you are selfish.”

“How kind,” she says, and seems to mean it. When Will looks up again, she is smiling. “I suppose you are right. And I must be getting back.” She stands.

Automatically, Will follows suit, and the polishing cloth drops limply to the floor. He hardly notices. He is not ready—he does not want her to leave so quickly. “Won’t you stay a while longer?” he asks, driven to blunt carelessness by desperation.

She shakes her head. “It would be improper.” Any sting the words might have had is soothed by the sad humor of her tone. “In any case, Mr. Turner, I don’t doubt we’ll see each other from time to time.”

It sounds so final, and yet—there is some hope. Will nods. “It is a small town, after all,” he says, and his voice does not betray him.

Elizabeth laughs. The sound is clear and close in the cramped space, and fades too soon. “So we will have no choice,” she agrees. Then she gathers up her book and glances at the door.

Will is not so hopeful as to ignore it. “Good day, Miss Swann,” he says, and bows to kiss her hand.

It is a curious kind of relief, having remained true to James—curious because he hardly feels relieved at all. It’s harder than Will expected to say farewell, harder still to watch Elizabeth walk away; every beat of his heart seems to stamp the loss into his bones. He stays quietly in the smithy for the rest of the day, as the shadows lengthen and evening draws on. He waits, wondering if James will visit—tomorrow he would have been promoted, and the men will set sail for Virginia the day after that. But he does not appear.

He is busy. Will knows this, yet he is disappointed. More than simply not wanting James to be alone and likely in low spirits, Will himself is lonelier than he can ever remember feeling—if only he could see James, he thinks, be held and kissed and spoken to softly, this emptiness would not be so dreadful. At the same time, he berates himself for feeling so lost at all; did he not do this out of love for James?

The night that follows is a long one.

There is a knock on the door the next morning, as Will is beginning his work but before he normally expects to do business. He lifts the bolt to find a boy standing in the street—James’s boy, he thinks automatically, for it is the same youth who has always shown him to James’s quarters. To see him here, now—to be visited—makes Will raise his eyebrows. “Can I help you?”

With an expression that clearly says he is no fonder of Will than the last time they met, the boy sticks out one hand, in which he holds a sealed envelope. “Payment from Commander Norrington, sir,” he says.

“Payment?” Will repeats, bewildered, without thinking.

“Yes, sir.”

Will masters himself. “Right. Thank you.” He takes the envelope and breaks the seal, and catches a glimpse of the folded parchment inside before he realizes that the boy is still standing there. “Thank you,” Will says again. “Is there anything else?”

“He asks that you send a response before the stroke of noon,” the boy tells him in a surly tone.

“And you’re to take that response directly, I suppose?” The boy nods. “That’s cutting things rather close,” Will remarks dryly.

He can’t be sure, but it looks as though the boy is fighting against a smile.

Feeling as though something, at last, has gone right—small though it is—Will holds the smithy door open wider. “It won’t take two minutes,” he says, “but have a seat.” The early years of his apprenticeship are not so far in the past, and he remembers well the heat and dust in the streets, even before the sun had fully risen. Sure enough, the boy sits quickly on the bench still waiting beside the window, looking glad for a chance to rest his feet.

Will takes the envelope to the table and takes his own chair, where he pulls out the parchment and lays it flat. He reads the message written there twice before he’s convinced he’s understood it correctly.

_Meet me in Governor Swann’s gardens this evening at ten of the clock. — J. N._

The words are so brusque, so distant, and above all so unusual that Will has difficulty tearing his eyes away. Between the message and James’s initials, there are numerous crossings-out and blotches of ink, as if James thought again and again of saying something more and decided against it each time. Will wonders why—was it too sensitive to entrust to a letter? And why on earth does he want to meet in the governor’s gardens, of all places? Surely there is nothing riskier than that—far more perilous than anything a letter might reveal.

Aware that he is taking too long, Will turns to the boy. “Tell Commander Norrington that everything appears to be in order,” he says.

With less churlishness than usual, the boy jumps to his feet, gives a stiff little bow, and is gone.

As evening draws nearer, Will finds himself even more distracted than he usually does when he knows that he will see James. He cannot keep the tone of the letter from his mind, and worries about what it could mean. Though he tells himself over and over that it is, logically, nothing more than a guard against outside eyes, he is not sure how much he believes it.

So when the bells on Queen Street ring out a quarter to ten, Will pulls on his coat against the turning chill of the night and sets out. He meets next to no one on the streets, but is careful to take alleys and side passages as he nears the governor’s house all the same. Because of his solitude, he catches the faint strains of music at once, growing louder all the time. When at last he comes into view of the mansion, he sees light spilling from the windows, and inside, crowded rooms thick with people.

The back gate is unlocked: Will presses it gently open, feeling a wash of prickling nostalgia as he remembers sneaking in this way to see Elizabeth once or twice when they were both very young. Not much has changed since then, he thinks, except of course that everything is completely different. Yet the grass here is still high, the path unmarked.

From the shadows, he peers in through the windows, all the figures closer now. The ladies’ brightly-colored dresses look like the candy Will used to see in English sweetshops as a child, while the men with their stiff backs and close collars bear more resemblance to wind-up toys. Here and there, he recognizes faces, and then—he spots Elizabeth.

She, too, is dressed impeccably, in a golden dress with pearls at her throat and in her hair, and the light catches on all of it so that she literally shines. Will does not stare—he looks away, a sharp pain in some sore region of his heart. The bells begin again to chime.

“You came,” says James’s voice from behind him, even farther from the pools of light. He is barely visible when Will turns, a dark shape in the gloom.

“Of course,” Will replies, doing his best not to sound guilty. “You asked me to.” He steps towards James, wanting to touch, too conscious of the crowd behind him.

It appears as though James is struggling with the same dilemma; his hands flutter indecisively an inch or two away from Will’s own. “It was still rather short notice,” he says. “I meant to ask earlier, but—time got away from me. I did not want to have to send Francis.”

James must mean the boy, Will realizes after a second’s confusion: so that is his name. “Was that wise?” he asks. “Can you trust him?”

“The seal was unbroken, was it not?” James spreads his hands in a slight shrug. “As I said, I did not mean to wait so long.”

“Wait so long for what?” Will asks. He peers at James, trying to see his expression and match it to the oddly reluctant tone of his voice—but his face is in shadow—in the shadow, he realizes, of a hat. A captain’s hat. “What are you wearing?” Will demands. In his surprise, it comes out sharper than he intends.

“I’m sorry,” is James’s response. He speaks the words quickly, but fervently. “I meant to tell you—”

“Tell me _what?”_ Will asks again, though he’s sure he already knows the answer; “That you have been promoted after all?”

“Well—” James sighs, and nods. “It was unexpected.”

“Surely not,” Will says, still with an edge to the words. He gestures to the house and the festivities within. “All these people would not be here without some notice.”

A long moment passes before James speaks again. “You’re right,” he admits, sounding altogether stricken. “I have known for nearly a week. I should have told you.”

“Then why didn’t you?” Will cannot decide if he is angry or not, torn as he is between vindication and compunction at hearing James sound so upset. He already hurts too much; he does not want James to hurt, too.

“I was busy,” James replies. The faint contour of his mouth twists. “I swear. I could not find the time.”

Will lets it pass, though it doesn’t soothe him: he knows it’s the truth. “How is this even possible?” he asks. “I thought it was all delayed, because of what happened in Virginia.”

James takes off his hat, then snatches the wig off as well, as if he can hardly bear it. He runs a hand through his tamped-down hair. “It _was_ delayed,” he says. “And then I—” He stops; with the way the shadows fall, the bob of his throat is visible as he swallows. “I took your advice.”

“What do you mean?”

“You told me I should tell Admiral Gillan that I supported the patrols,” James reminds him, “you said I should speak my mind.” The music from the house is not enough to pierce the thickening silence between them. It hangs like a storm cloud, heavy, impending. “I told him. About the patrols, and other things besides.”

“When?” Will asks. It scrapes his throat raw.

“Six days ago.”

If it were anything else, Will thinks, anything at all, it would be enough that James’s voice is rife with remorse, and he would be able to forget it. At least for the moment, he would be able to forgive. But—“You told him,” Will repeats. “And he listened?” James doesn’t answer, nor does he need to: for this to be happening, the Admiral must have heeded his words. “And,” Will continues, the whole of it unfolding now like a lifting fog, “and you are going to head one of those patrols. Or you are going to Virginia.”

“Patrols. It was a condition of the promotion,” James says. “And besides, I am a captain. I can hardly stay behind.”

Will sucks in a breath, and spits it out again. He cannot decide which is worse: that James is leaving on so long a voyage, or that he chose to go. There are a number of things he could say, some angry, some pleading, some sad. They all lay like dead things in his mouth.

Into the void of Will’s speechlessness, James speaks in a whisper. “I am sorry,” he says. “I had no choice. I did not want to leave.”

Though he’s almost silent, Will hears the way his voice breaks. His own throat aches as well.

“Please believe me,” James continues, and it is startling to hear, undeniably, that he is frightened. “I have given so much. I couldn’t think when I would have another chance—and I wish we did not have to part because of it. I love you,” he says, “God, Will—if there were another way, I would take it.”

There is, Will wants to cry—you could have waited, and stayed with me. He feels like the mountain of James’s guilt is crushing him, too, because what are they both being if not selfish? And how can Will deny him this when he has gone away before, and always returned? “I know you would,” he says at last, still with that awful rough bottom to his voice, like the words have cut him open. Perhaps they have. “I wish you had told me before.”

James finally takes his hands, one in each of his own, the hat and wig falling to the ground. His grip is tight, almost painfully so. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I didn’t know how. And the longer I waited—I told myself it would be easier.”

“It isn’t,” Will tells him. “I want to know next time, I want you to say something—” As he says it, he realizes he has accepted that James is indeed leaving, bitter though it is, and that there will be a next time. He feels as if his knees will buckle.

“I promise,” James says immediately. “I swear it.”

Will closes his eyes. He wants to pretend that James is promising he will not leave again, that this will be the last. He cannot quite manage it. He opens his eyes again and drinks James in: the play of light like a dream over his features, mixed with shadows, the soft shine of his eyes, the gentle curve of his lips. A painting rendered in the colors of the night. “I love you, too,” he breathes.

“So much,” James says, as if trying to convince him. “More than anything else.”

When James surges forward to kiss him, Will lets him, wraps his arms around James in turn, falls into the heat of his mouth and tangles his fingers. He knows it is not true—James will never love him more than the sea. But his own heart is still half-torn and he thinks that in this, as in so many other things, they are perfectly matched.

When they break apart, gasping, Will wants to weep, wants to hold him fast and lash their bodies together. He forces himself to say, “You will be missed inside. They’re all there for you.”

James’s eyes darken at the reminder. “I already made a speech,” he says. “I danced with many women. They will have to amuse themselves without me.” But already he has begun to stiffen again—to pull back ever so slightly.

Will cannot shake the feeling that James is turning away from him, that he has been passed over, even as James’s words say otherwise. He lets go of the hands he is holding and reaches down, picks up the hat and wig. “Here,” he says, half-choked with it all.

James takes the wig and puts it on, and when Will reaches out to straighten it, he bows his head to make it easier. His hands steady, Will places the hat on his head as well, hating the three-cornered shape with all his heart.

“Don’t stay away too long,” Will tells him. “Come home soon.”

“As fast as the winds will carry me,” James says. If they were standing an inch farther apart, he would be inaudible.

Will nods. “Good.” Unable to stop himself, he kisses James again, twines their fingers together. “I’ll wait for you at the docks,” he whispers into his skin.

James whispers back, “I’ll watch for you.” With a last kiss to the edge of Will’s mouth, he turns and steps back toward the house, skirting the light, slipping inside at a servants’ door. The music plays on.


	11. Point-In-Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A threat made with the extended arm, in the sense that if you throw yourself upon it, you have only yourself to blame.

“Will?” comes James’s voice, reaching down through the haze of sleep, no more than a whisper. “Are you awake?”

Fumbling to sit up, Will peers through the shadowy room. James is in the doorway with one hand still on the knob, the lines of his body drowned in darkness. “Yes,” he says.

James leaves the door and approaches the bed, where he sits and finds Will’s hand. “I woke you,” he guesses.

“Yes,” Will says again, ruefully. Closer, James’s face is tipped with weak moonlight cast from a sky thick with clouds, just barely illuminating the faint cut of his jaw, his nose, the mere suggestion of his lips. It has been long enough that Will’s heart beats faster to have him so near. “I thought you wouldn’t come until tomorrow evening,” he says.

“That was my intention,” James admits, “but I couldn’t stay away. I hope you didn’t wait for me.”

All his thoughts muffled by sleepy desire so that he hardly knows what he’s saying, Will murmurs, “No.” He can’t stop himself from reaching for James and pulling him closer, but no sooner have their lips touched than Will, cursing himself silently, yawns.

“You did wait up,” James accuses.

Sheepish, Will nods, and yawns again. Then he is laughing helplessly, clinging to James with their bodies half-entwined. He hears James laughing too, a soft noise in the dark. “I’m sorry,” Will says. “I think—”

“Sleep,” James tells him gently, and lies down with him so that they are facing each other in the narrow bed.

“You’ve got your boots on,” Will mumbles.

“So I have,” James says, and sits back up to remove them, as well as his coat. Then he returns to his previous position, one hand resting on Will’s cheek, his eyes alight in the pale wash of the moon.

Struggling against the tide of weariness threatening to engulf him again, Will blinks with heavy eyelids. “You’ll stay?” he asks.

“Till dawn,” James promises, as always. The last sensation Will has before he slips away is a pair of lips brushing his forehead.

But it does not surprise Will when he wakes before dawn and finds James half-dressed, standing in the half-shadows near the window to see better. Will lights a candle and watches the room fill with flickering light. “How was the patrol?” he asks, keeping his tone carefully neutral. In the haze of the previous night, he forgot to ask—and he forgot his lingering feeling of betrayal as well, though it returns now in full force.

“Uneventful,” James replies. He avoids meeting Will’s eyes, focusing instead on the cuffs of his shirt, and that one word is said quickly enough that it’s plain he, too, is feeling a return of tension.

Will worries the brass of the candleholder between his forefinger and thumb, wishing more than anything that the air were easy between them once more. “That’s good,” he says, and rises from the bed to banish his own troubled thoughts, setting the candle on the small bedside table. He goes to James and stands before him, doing up the front laces of his shirt, which is so white that it seems to glow faintly in the dark. “Isn’t it?” he asks, when James doesn’t respond.

“It is,” James agrees. “But it is rather…” What exactly it is, Will never finds out, for James sighs sharply and takes Will’s hands in his own, stopping him from finishing the ties, holding him fast. “You are still angry with me,” he says.

“No,” Will says, “not—not angry.” It’s true; whatever anger he felt abated weeks ago.

“But you’re unhappy,” James presses.

Will looks up and is slightly surprised to meet his gaze, even more so upon seeing that it is full of pain. In the face of that, he can’t bring himself to be honest. “I was,” he says, “when you were away.”

James frowns. “But—all is well now?” There is disbelief in every word.

“All is well,” Will says. In that moment, despite his torn conscience, he cannot deny that he thrills to touch James again, even as he did last night. He kisses James softly, and his smile is not false—that much, at least, comes as a comfort. “I do love you,” he murmurs.

He feels James’s lips curve into a smile as well. “And I, you.” The next kiss is deeper. James’s hands tugging Will closer and his body arching to match Will’s are at odds with all his clothing, nearly done up entirely. “Later,” James breathes, laughing now; “it’s almost light.” And before Will can stop him, he slips on his coat and presses a farewell hand to Will’s own, and is gone.

Will stands for a moment in the suddenly empty room, then sinks to the bed and rests his head in his hands. He knows that part of the ache within him is exhaustion from too little sleep, but that is not enough to account for all of it: he feels, undeniably, resentful, and can hardly stomach it. James apologized, he reminds himself, with true remorse, and true to his word has kept nothing from Will since he was made a captain.

But—and Will tries not to think it, knowing it’s unfair—he had hoped that in the aftermath, James would stay longer, or visit more often. It’s illogical and impractical, but he had hoped. The reality has been infrequent passing moments stolen in the night, each all too brief, and it wears, even as Will is fully aware that he has no right to hold this against James. Everything they do together jeopardizes James’s career, all that for which he has worked so hard.

So when James returns to him the next evening as the sun sets, Will does his best to set his troubled mind aside. James, too, it appears, makes an effort to forget whatever he sensed of Will’s reservations, for though there is a flicker of a question in his eyes, he says nothing about it. Only later, as they lie drowsing, the single candle burning once again—though the air from the window is so hot and heavy that even its faint heat seems oppressive—only then does James pose a difficult question that seems to betray a little of his thoughts. “Do you find it difficult,” he says, “when I am at sea?”

Will blinks and looks around at James, somewhat puzzled, and realizes that he is staring upwards at the dim ceiling, apparently much more alert than Will. “Difficult?” Will repeats. “In what sense?”

“Do you grow lonely?”

Frowning, Will thinks over his answer. He has always been the more solitary sort; disregarding the awful desolation after he bid Elizabeth farewell, he has rarely felt forsaken. “Not lonely, no,” he says at last. “But I miss you, certainly.” When there is no response, he adds, “More than I have missed anything else.”

It’s an echo of what James said to him weeks ago. Upon hearing it, James glances at him in recognition, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. Then he says, haltingly, “I’m glad you are not lonely.” But he does not sound glad, and his gaze has returned to the ceiling.

“Do _you_ grow lonely?” Will ventures in return, for some reason hesitant.

“Every time.” James gives a shallow sigh. “Even before I knew that—that you felt the same way, but especially since then. I thought it might be easier, knowing that you waited for me, but in fact the opposite has turned out to be true. I wrote you letters, once, you know,” he says, rather suddenly, propping his head up on his hand, resting his weight on his elbow. “On my first voyage, after you kissed me. You remember?”

It’s clear by the way he says it that James knows it’s an absurd question, and Will smirks. “Vaguely.”

“One of the cabin-boys found them,” James says, and Will experiences a moment of heart-stopping alarm until he continues, “Luckily I had the sense not to address them to anyone. Still—” He chuckles. “The whole ship thought I was madly in love with a married woman. They amused themselves to no end in trying to find out more about it.”

Watching James, Will savors the sight of his smile, so much more suited to his face than the distressed expression that it has replaced. He feels his own smile grow in return. “And what did they find out?”

“Not a thing,” James says. “I wasn’t forthcoming. They gave up—though unfortunately some of the rumors have lingered.” And his eyes darken momentarily again.

Intent on brightening James’s spirits, Will says, “I wrote you a letter as well, when you were fighting pirates on the _Hyena.”_

It works: James’s expression changes to surprise as he stares at Will. “Truly?” he asks.

Will nods.

“And no one found it?”

“No. I still have it, I believe.” Will gestures vaguely to the mess of parchment near the window.

James grins. “May I read it?”

“If you like,” Will says, sitting up himself as James rises, wearing only his long shirt, and begins rifling through all the old transactions, calculations, and lists of errands that litter the desk. He rolls his eyes when a few pages flutter to the floor: James is making a show of his eagerness.

And then James finds the letter and brings it back to the bed, where he lies across the rough mattress at Will's feet. Will follows the motion of his eyes along each line and recalls for the first time a little of what he wrote. How much of himself he poured onto the page! He begins, very slightly, to wish he had burned the letter, or at least that he had not let James see it. But there is nothing he can do now.

At last James looks up. “You said,” he murmurs, “that you weren't lonely.”

Will feels his cheeks begin to burn at once, and is sure he must be flushing as brilliantly as a sunset. “I'm not.”

James's eyes drop to the page again, and then back to Will. “This says otherwise. ‘Each day without you grows—’”

“Don’t!" Will makes to wrest the letter from James, who stops reading at once but does not relinquish it.

James pauses with his mouth still open, then asks carefully, “Were you—lying—?”

“No,” Will rushes, “of course not.” But he doesn't need James to quote the letter to have a vague, half-remembered idea of its contents, and he can't deny that it certainly _sounds_ lonely. He sighs. “I am not lonely,” he insists, “I simply—miss you, as I said. I miss you a great deal.” As he speaks, he feels as though the words do not do justice to the sudden yearning within him—an echo of what he feels each time James puts out to sea, though tonight he is within arm's reach.

“Explain to me the difference,” James says, “for I cannot see it here.” He nods at the page.

With another sigh, this time somewhat exasperated, Will leans forward and takes James's hand, needing inexplicably to feel him, his solidity, his irrevocable presence. He wonders at the way the longing for closeness has gripped him, as if it has reached out from the memories to tug at his heart. “I don't know,” he says. “Can a person not feel as if a part of themselves has been cut away, yet know that the other parts are whole?” He runs his thumb across James's knuckles, watching that rather than James's face. “I love you more than I can say, and I am never happy that you are gone—but I am still able to be happy _while_ you are gone—whatever that letter might say to the contrary,” he adds hastily, and without thinking, explains, “When I wrote that, I was lo—” He stops.

“You were lonely,” James finishes softly. His expression, when Will glances towards him, is knowing.

“Very well,” Will relents, “perhaps I was.” He does not know what to do about the return of the awful despair to James's face, any more than he knows how it came to be there.

James's small smile is heartbreaking. “If I may,” he says slowly, and turns his hand over so that Will's is in his palm, “I think that it is possible to be all the lonelier for knowing that one need not be. And at times it can be one person's absence that darkens the company of all others.”

At first, Will wants to disagree, but he finds that he is unable to. How many times has he thought, in his conversations with Elizabeth, that he would give anything to be able to laugh with James at that moment, to speak with him as Will does with her, freely and without fear? And how many times since he bid her farewell, he asks himself further, has he missed Elizabeth fiercely and wished, even as he sat beside James, to be near her once more? Guilt is a lump in Will's throat, and his silence speaks for itself.

“A man may lack only one thing,” James continues, his voice gentle, “but if that thing is his own heart, he cannot truly live while it is gone.”

“Is that,” Will says, and has to swallow, “is that how you feel as well?”

James looks at him with wide and worried eyes, but does not speak or nod or shake his head. He does not need to.

Before Will can stop himself he has risen to his knees on the bed and is kissing James, still desperate to be near him, but more than that, yearning to put to rest that troubled look that now seems less strange, having recognized it in himself. He kisses James, who lets the letter fall to the floor and kisses him back as if trying to prove some point. They are all reaching hands and crashing heartbeats, and as Will is pressed back to the bed with James above him he can hardly breathe for love, and yet he is not glad.

In the humid, black depths of the same night, the candle blown out, Will is restless. He lies on his side and gazes at James: his eyes have adjusted to the dark and he can see the rise and fall of his breathing. Sleep tugs at his eyelids, but his mind goes in circles, heedless of the hour and his desire to think about something, anything, else.

For he cannot escape the fear that this darkness, this fraying tension that has sprung up between them, is his fault. Lonely—lonely does not begin to describe it, this back-and-forth tug between himself and Elizabeth, and in the middle, James. Neither their usual closeness nor the words they have shared tonight can lessen the ache of it. Of course, ever since the priest told him of his mother's fate, he has known that beautiful language is always inadequate in the face of pain—but it's a hard lesson to learn twice.

Yet he doesn't regret his choice. He loves James. That, it seems, is the foundation of all his actions, even the most rash. Were he to choose again, it would be no different—and in any case, having chosen, there is nothing he can do. Will turns over in the bed, still wide awake, aware that this sleeplessness will make the next day hell.

 _You're unhappy,_ James had said once, and while it's not him that Will is unhappy with, it is somehow true. He knows it is the cause of their growing distance and it frightens him that his discontent has been noticed. It has made James unhappy in return. He resists the urge to groan aloud.

There comes the whisper of blanket on skin and then James's fingers touch Will's shoulder. “You're still awake?” James whispers. “Is something wrong?”

Caught, Will turns back, and though he does not want to lie, he is loathe to give James more cause for sorrow. He resolves, as he meets James's gaze, to focus on what he has, rather than what he has lost. “I don't like that you're lonely,” he says. It is not a lie at all.

In James's eyes is a well of such sleep-softened sweetness that Will cannot bear to look. His hand finds Will's again, the other brushing Will's hair gently back from where it has fallen over his face. “Nor do I,” he whispers, “but I am not lonely now.”

Will finally falls asleep dreaming of smothering clouds, and wakes to unbearable heat before the sun has even risen. The air feels tight and full. Beside him, the bed is empty, but on the pillow is a scrap of parchment bearing a tiny sketch of a flower in green ink that Will recognizes as his own.

He smiles at the gift and tucks it into the pages of the filled ledger on his desk, where he knows no prying eyes will find it. The gray sky outside is blanketed in clouds, and Will knows that even when dawn does come, it will not be a bright day. He is right: noon comes and goes without a glimpse of the sun, and then it is night, and he has not seen it at all—nor, still later, dousing the forge, has he seen James.

Ten long days he stays away, though Will knows from the docks that he has not departed the colony, and the weather grows ever more oppressive, until Will is sure that the storm must break soon.

And it does, on the evening of the eleventh day, bursting into a whirl of rain that lashes the buildings with the fury of the sea itself. The streets turn muddy and great gales of wind send those who brave the storm knocking into one another as they pass. Will stays inside—he knows he cannot outlast the weather, knows that these tempests can last for days, but he has no wish to tempt fate—and puts away his tools as the rain falls like hammer-blows on the roof.

When someone begins banging on the door, then, he thinks it is the thunder. It’s only when he hears a voice shouting _open_ that he realizes his mistake—he wrenches the door open and hastily stands aside as three drenched forms hurtle into the smithy. Closing the door again, Will bolts it with some effort and turns around to see the unlikeliest of trios: James, Lieutenant Groves, and the cabin-boy, Francis.

“What can I do for you?” he asks out of habit, bewildered, unable to see a sword or anything else that might mean business for him. He speaks to the rapidly growing puddle of water in order to avoid meeting James’s gaze.

As it is, all three of them are too busy wiping rain from their eyes to look at him for several moments. It’s Groves who finally responds, sounding oddly loud against the muted roaring of the storm outside. “I apologize for the intrusion,” he says. “Might we beg shelter here—just until the morning?”

“Well—” Will pauses, unable to help glancing at James, but his gaze is not returned. “This is a smithy,” he says. “It isn’t quite—”

“No matter,” Groves says, waving a hand and sending water flying. “It’s a good deal warmer and drier than out there.” He jerks his head at the window. “In any case, we didn’t intend to take refuge in a smithy, we could hardly see—we thought this was the inn.”

“That’s three streets to the west,” Will tells him. Then he pulls himself together and says, “Of course, you’re welcome to wait it out. I’m afraid I don’t have anywhere—”

Groves cuts him off again. “If you’ve a blanket to spare, that will do.” He looks down when Francis sneezes. “Take off your coat, boy, you’re as bad as the captain.” And he shoots a meaningful look at James.

For both of them—Francis and James—are standing there still dripping, while Groves at least has had the sense to shed his outer layer. Francis looks like a half-drowned cat as he takes off his coat, which is slightly overlarge, his usual surly expression heightened by the spattering of mud across one cheek. James, too, removes his coat, and while he doesn't seem to see Groves's glance, his mouth tightens into a thin line, his jaw set.

Will hesitates. He wonders whether he ought to speak to James, who is of a higher rank, or Groves, who is clearly waiting for an answer. “Certainly,” he says at last, deciding on Groves. “Let me fetch them for you.” He resists a sudden insane urge to bow like a servant, and all but bolts for the stairs.

Above, he strips one blanket from his bed and takes another from the shelf. The rain is louder here and makes it difficult to think, but perfectly matches the tempo of Will's racing heart. He unearths a third blanket from the bottom of his sea-chest, then returns to the others. Francis appears to be shivering, and wraps his blanket around himself at once.

James still does not speak, but takes his blanket with a nod, his gaze cast downward. Groves murmurs his thanks, directing another surreptitious look at James. When he catches Will watching, his gaze closes off.

A feeling of dread begins to gather in Will's chest. He turns and leaves, going not upstairs but into the tiny kitchen that the smithy shares with the farrier's next door. He piles wood on the embers of the fire, still glowing, and coaxes a small flame to life. Then he collapses into the wobbly wooden stool.

Try as he might, he cannot quite remember anything this disastrous happening before. All of his previous public brushes with James have been brief, and for months now they have been careful to spend very little time in the smithy together during the day—no more than could be easily believed. Much less time, in fact, than a naval officer might be expected to spend with a blacksmith. And now two others have been brought straight to the heart of what exists between them; worse, an officer with a reputation for gossip and a boy who has already carried messages between them before.

And something has happened between them—Will is certain of it. Why the significant looks from Groves? Why the refusal to speak from James? And why—why, Will wonders, his stomach knotting—why were they out at all? This storm has been threatening for days; it could not have come as a surprise. What could possibly have demanded their attention _now?_

With such thoughts chasing each other through his mind, Will is slightly surprised to notice that the fire has grown strong. He heats water, finds bread and cheese. He gives the plate and mugs of tea to Groves and James, as Francis has already nodded off, wrapped in all three of the blankets. Will can see nothing in their faces of what they might have said during his absence—in fact, he can hardly see anything at all, as the scant light from the stormy day has now faded entirely into blackness. He retires upstairs once more and sits by candlelight, unable to do anything but think, desperately, of the men below.

After several minutes he leaps to his feet and retrieves two more blankets, leaving his bed bare, and brings them down. The candle flickers eerily on the walls, glints at strange angles on the metal. He presses the blankets to James’s hands wordlessly, watches him give one to Groves. Then he turns, wretched, to go back up the steps—and knocks a box of nails to the ground.

He hears them clatter softly against each other, and then dully strike the earth, scattering. He freezes, then sets the candle on the floor and kneels down to retrieve whatever he can. He does not know if the other two have noticed or if they are watching him, but he cannot risk stepping on one in the morning, so there is only one option. And then someone settles beside him, someone warm and damp and murmuring.

“Let me help,” James says, then switches to a whisper pitched so low as to be almost inaudible. “Will you wait for me?” he asks. “Upstairs?”

Will forces himself not to look around or let his limbs stiffen in surprise. “Yes,” he breathes back. “What—”

“Later,” James interrupts, “I promise. I’m sorry.”

Accepting that, Will falls silent, and then for some minutes the only sound between them is the _clink_ of nails falling into the box. By an unspoken agreement they both rise; James returns to his seat against the wall and Will replaces the box on the table before ascending the stairs once more.

His stomach turns with nerves that he know are unwarranted. Will has to force himself to sit still—he knows that movement will make the floor creak—and it does not go easily: he wants to pace up and down, hates waiting in the shadows. But, he reflects, he accepted this fate long ago. The moment he saw James and loved him—the moment he knew that James loved him in return—he hid half of himself away. So, very quietly, he readies himself for bed, washes his face with water from the basin, if only to stop his nervous hands from shaking.

It seems like half the night has passed before James comes up the stairs, stepping as softly as he can, though Will can tell by the moon that less than an hour has gone by. They light no candle, so only the moon illuminates the space between them. James sits beside Will on the bed, and for a moment neither of them speaks. Will feels his heart in his throat. Is James, too, battling with terror at this very moment?

At last James draws a shallow breath. “I’m sorry,” he whispers again. “For putting you in this position.”

“It isn’t your fault,” Will tells him. “You couldn’t see.”

“But I knew where we were,” James insists. “How many times have I crept in here in the dead of night?” He shakes his head with a rueful smile. “I’d know the way if I were blind and deaf. But—” He sighs. “We needed shelter. But this is not what I wanted.”

Will reaches out and takes his hand. “We will get through it,” he says. “It is only one night, after all.”

James’s smile turns to a real one, though he still looks troubled. “I think it must be the hundredth time I’ve said this,” he murmurs, “but I do believe that without you I would be a different man altogether.”

“I don’t see how,” Will says. “I’ve hardly—”

“You are the better part of me,” James says, and leans in swiftly to kiss him. It lasts only a moment, and when he pulls back again, his eyes are dark. “We should not be here,” he says again.

Will wonders if he’s referring to the two of them, upstairs together, or himself, Groves, and Francis. And with that he remembers the meaningful glances that passed downstairs. “Why _are_ you here?” he asks.

“I told you,” James says, “we—”

“No,” Will amends, “I mean why were the three of you out at all, in this weather? You can’t have been caught by surprise.”

James looks at him with a resigned expression that has come to be somewhat familiar to Will, who feels his throat constrict. “We were on our way back to the barracks,” James explains, “from the sail loft. We didn’t expect it to take so long—we thought to be back before the rain began.”

“You walked?” Will asks, disbelieving.

“It’s not so far.”

“It’s far enough,” Will counters. Then he frowns. “The sail loft—you were outfitting your ship?”

“Yes,” James sighs. At the look that must be on Will’s face, he shakes his head. “I just received the orders yesterday,” he says. “And I do not know when we’ll leave—only that it will be soon. Nor can I say how long I’ll be gone.” His gaze searches Will’s. “I’m—”

“Don’t say you’re sorry.” Will turns his face away. “I know you cannot help it. And I want you to do well.” It is true—as always, all of it is true. But he wishes he had not found out in this way, on this night, with so much danger already between them. Now their moments are numbered as well as fraught. “We have a little time, at least,” he says.

James blinks. “Do we?”

Will gestures vaguely, indicating the roar of the storm. “You cannot set sail in weather like this.”

James snorts. “That’s true.” For a moment, he hesitates, then he kisses Will again. It lasts longer this time, but he still pulls away too quickly, with Will still reaching for him.

It’s not until later, when James is gone and Will lies listening to the rain drumming above him, that he realizes he never truly got the answer he was looking for—he still does not know what was amiss between James and Groves. Because it is none of his business, he did not ask, and of course James did not volunteer the information, but still it seeps through his thoughts. The dark, disapproving expression on Grove’s face, nearly condemnatory, haunts him. He rolls over, chalks his unease up to the only cause he can: the dark shadow on his heart that has grown deeper, blacker, since James’s promotion to captain. It taints all his pride in the matter, for he knows that no matter what they whisper to each other, the sea calls them both, after a fashion, and it will take one or the other of them in the end.

In the morning, though the rain has not stopped, Will wakes to an empty smithy and a small stack of coins on the table. He pockets them and looks around, expecting to see some other sign of the past night’s events, and sees the blankets that he brought down, neatly folded beside the empty plate and mugs. When he picks them up, they are cold.

The skies clear three days later without another visit from James—and the next afternoon Will learns, checking for a shipment of ore down at the docks, that the _Interceptor_ has set out again. “Early, too,” says the cooper’s apprentice, peering at him in the weak sunlight. “One of the cabin-boys told me the captain couldn’t wait to be gone.”

As he walks back to the smithy, lost in his troubled thoughts, Will does not take much notice of his surroundings until a voice says, “It’s good to see you made it through the deluge.”

Will turns. Elizabeth catches up to him, a paper-wrapped package beneath one arm, a coin purse swinging from her wrist. She smiles as she draws level. “Our carriage broke,” she tells him, learning dramatically close, “on the first night. We were nearly swept into the sea.”

“It sounds terrifying,” Will replies, trying to keep his tone neutral but unable to help smiling back. It is so good to see her again after weeks spent apart. And for all that he knows it is wrong, he has missed the warmth of her gaze, the lilt of her voice. “How did you survive?”

“By untying the horses and leading them home on foot,” she says—and her face is so serious that he isn’t sure whether she means it. He certainly wouldn’t be surprised if it were true; this is Elizabeth, after all. “What about you—was there any adventure to speak of?”

Will thinks of James, standing dripping in the near-dark, and of the whispered confession that followed, and feels his smile grow hollow. “None whatsoever,” he says, “thankfully.”

She scoffs at that, as he knew she would. “Mr. Turner,” she says, drawing herself up in disdain, “I fear that is woefully dull.” She glances ahead, and Will sees her realization that they have nearly reached the smithy. “I refuse to remain in such company,” she says with a haughty smile—then she flashes him a true grin, and sweeps off.

Will watches her go. He lets himself into the smithy and leans against the door when he has shut it, at a loss, finding himself desperate—not for the first time—to be anyone but himself. He does not know how to love two people, he thinks, not when he must live with both of them, like a constantly re-opening wound. A bruise he cannot help but probe.

He gives himself a real bruise the next day by dropping a bar of iron on his foot because he is not paying attention. He curses himself and throws himself more fully into his work—but even the gaol bars cannot distract him, for when he thinks on them, he thinks on their flawed design, and then he must remember how Elizabeth tried to help him with her father. And so it goes, in circles.

But the bars are finished within two weeks—at last, he thinks, surveying the mass of iron grilles, stacked and waiting to be put on a cart. At last he will be free of them, and—he grimaces to himself—the worst that can happen now is that some prisoner will exploit their weakness and escape. He sighs.

When the masons come to collect the bars, however, they inform him that he is not, in fact, quite finished. There will be a small celebration when the last stone is set in place, and he is required to attend. “When will that be?” Will asks.

The head mason shrugs, wiping sweat from his brow. “There’s a captain what had a part to play, too,” he says. “He’s at sea now. Can’t finish up till he returns.”

With the nagging sense that he knows precisely who the captain is, Will agrees—not that he has any other choice. And as fortune—good or ill—would have it, the _Interceptor_ docks that very night.

Will does not expect James to visit; it is too late. But he smiles nevertheless as he pulls a blanket off of the shelf to ward off the slight chill of the evening. A piece of parchment drifts out of the folds. Picking it up, Will half-expects to see another hastily-drawn flower, but instead there are words. _I will come when the rain stops,_ reads James’s hand, _and as soon as I return from this voyage. Forgive me._

Several moments pass before Will works out that James must have written this on the night of the storm, and left it in the blanket for him to find. But he did not find it—and so, he realizes, he did not notice anything amiss when James did not visit again. He will surely come tonight, though, having broken his last promise—so Will keeps a candle lit and works on his accounts, waiting for a knock at the door.

It does not come. The scratching of his quill grows loud and irritating in his weary ears, and Will finds the numbers in his ledger blurring as his eyes close of their own volition. At last he gives up when the moon is past its zenith. The smoke from the candle burns his nose; his disappointment rankles. He closes the book, puts away his quill and ink, and removes his boots, goes to bed.

He is not yet asleep when he hears a noise below, then, unmistakably, footsteps on the stairs. Before he can spur his leaden limbs to movement, the door is opening, and though Will’s face is turned to the opposite wall he knows that James is standing behind him—he has come after all. He waits for a whisper to reach his ears, or perhaps for a hand to come to rest on his shoulder. But there is nothing, and then very faintly—James must have gone quietly, deliberately—he hears the stairs creak again. Will raises himself on one elbow and turns to look at the door, which stands open, the frame empty. From below he hears the sound of a bolt being drawn, the squeak of hinges, the sound of the smithy door shutting against the night.


	12. Absence of Blade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When opposite blades do not touch.

The bay is lilac under an orange sky as Will pauses in front of The Three Mariners. Music and loud laughter come from within the tavern, but he turns his back, looking out instead over the bridge and through the riggings and watching the sun sink ever lower. His cravat is stifling and he loosens it slightly. He knows he should not be lingering here—he is already late—but his feet refuse to move, stuck fast, and he is loathe to force them.

He looks around sharply at a shout, but it is only a boy, a merchant's apprentice by the look of him, yelling at a stray dog. Will blinks away, irritated at his own nervousness. It is not dangerous for anyone to see him here; he has been invited, after all. But with his head full of thoughts of what is to come, his heart is pounding as relentlessly as the purplish waves that beat the walls of Fort Carlisle. He swallows hard and tries to will his fear away, stares at the water unblinkingly, then turns on his heel and walks on.

When he arrives at the governor's house, he has succeeded somewhat in mastering himself, but he still wishes for something to hold as he walks through the doors. He is not used to being here without a sword box, or rolled-up plans, or at the very least a purse of coins. But now he has nothing. It is absurd to feel naked when he is swathed head to toe in tight, formal, and little-worn clothing—absurd, yet there it is. Governor Swann sees him and beckons him over. Will hurries to him and bows.

“Lady Cosgrove,” the governor says, “might I introduce Mr. Turner? It’s the fine work of him and his master that will be keeping the prisoners in their cells.”

As Will bows again, Lady Cosgrove surveys him with one eyebrow arched. “How do you do,” she says. Her gaze cuts back to the governor. “What of the man himself?”

Governor Swann frowns. “Mr. Brown?”

“Yes,” Lady Cosgrove says in her reedy voice. She turns to Will again. “Well? Why has he not graced us with his presence?”

“He is—quite busy,” Will says swiftly. “He regrets that he cannot spare the time to attend.”

Lady Cosgrove sniffs. “Surely he isn’t still working at this hour?”

Will blinks at her for a moment before realizing that the question is a serious one. “This isn’t so very late for us, my lady,” he says, and then adds, though it irks him, “I’ll let him know that he was missed.”

“Hm,” she snorts. “You needn’t bother. I don’t doubt his style of ‘work’ will have him halfway to Concord by now.” She narrows her flinty eyes. “I’m glad to see that you have turned from smashing windows to building gaol bars, at any rate.”

Several moments go by before the governor, flushed, asks after Lady Cosgrove’s niece. She switches to the new subject at once, with only the hint of a smirk playing about her mouth.

Will fights back a smile of his own and stands for a few minutes, silent, as the other two talk. He knows none of the names they mention and would dearly love to move away—despite Lady Cosgrove’s unexpected and somewhat sharp-edged support, he feels awkward knowing that she remembers the incident with the cobbler’s window—but he doesn’t know anyone else in the room, either, and hardly fancies entering into more small talk with strangers.

So he stays where he is, glad that he does not have to speak to James here, and trying not to think of it. Neither the governor nor Lady Cosgrove so much as looks at him again. Will begins to wonder if perhaps he is expected to walk away—

And then a laugh behind him makes Will turn to look, though he knows that laugh, though the sound of it makes him smile automatically in return. As he expected, Elizabeth has just entered the room, twisting around to talk to someone walking behind her. Will is still looking at her, at the play of the light from the chandelier over the jewels in her earrings, at her throat, that he does not immediately notice when she comes farther into the room, and the person behind her is revealed to be James.

Hastily, Will turns back to the others, who have taken as little notice of his distraction as if he were a piece of furniture. That suits him well; he busies himself trying to slow his heart yet again, hoping that his face is not too red. So much for not having to talk to James—but perhaps he did not notice, and perhaps they will not be forced to acknowledge each other.

It is easy now to remain where he is, nodding as if he is engrossed in the governor's conversation, though his mind is alive like the air before a storm. He wonders how close they are, he and James, if James is even aware that Will is in attendance. He hopes so—such a surprise could be disastrous. Yet at the same time, a smaller, less honorable part of him wants James to be unaware so that he can see his reaction, without warning or time to recover. He wants to read whatever expression would appear on James's face when he sees Will. It's been three days since he returned, and he hasn't visited once, save that first night—Will cannot help but wonder why, after coming all the way to the smithy, he left again. He cannot think of a good answer, and it hurts.

He realizes that he is scowling, and forces his mind to other things. He finds himself caught by the ornate woodwork of the stairs, clearly masterful carpentry, the kind of designs that he wants to try in metal. The gleam of metal does come from somewhere, though—there, he sees, on the table near the banister, a great bronze vase holds flowers. They don't fit with their container, being wildflowers, clearly from the cliffs above the town, but it's the vase itself that now holds his interest. For it is polished to a shine and in its surface, the party behind him is clearly reflected, if somewhat distorted by the shape.

He searches the tinted forms for James or Elizabeth, and finally spots them, still near each other, now standing with Lieutenant Groves and Gillette, two other officers and two women. As Will watches, James nods, and Elizabeth says something, and then James laughs—Will can hear it with his back to the rest of the room.

At that precise moment, the governor strides away from their trio and towards a more prominent position, where he claps his hands for attention. Will turns and, with his hands clasped behind his back, gives what he hopes is an impression of respectful consideration, while in fact staring at James on the opposite side of the hall.

He is standing beside Elizabeth, and though both of them are gazing at the governor, James still bears the traces of his laugh, and his cheeks are faintly flushed. He does not notice Will watching him, or perhaps he is deliberately avoiding his gaze—but, no, Will tells himself, if James were ever to meet his eyes in public, this would be the perfect opportunity, when everyone else is distracted. And then he has to kick himself for thinking too much about it. Yet—how can he do otherwise?

The governor finishes his short speech with a remark that Will doesn't hear, and everyone laughs amid a smattering of applause. At once they all turn away, conversing once more with each other, each in their own little groups. Will wavers, adrift, as Lady Cosgrove has moved away and he doesn't feel able to approach the governor without an invitation. Then the problem is solved—or perhaps worsened—for him, as Elizabeth catches his eye and summons him with the lift of her chin. He knows it would be better for everyone involved if he pretended not to see, but one of the other officers is watching as well, and he does not imagine that publicly snubbing the governor's daughter will end well. So he walks over to her, feeling both elation and dread in equal measure.

As he draws near, Groves steps slightly to one side, affording Will an unimpeded view of James's face as he realizes that Will is approaching. After the split second of surprise, with widening eyes and a tight clench of his jaw, James brings his expression so rapidly under control that, had Will not seen the first moment, he would think that James had not seen him at all. The switch is reassuring, but also somewhat disappointing, and Will has to remind himself that it is better if James appears not to know him. That is, after all, the only sane thing to expect.

“Mr. Turner,” the men all chorus, and Elizabeth smiles at him. Will kisses her hand and nods in return to the others. “Gentlemen,” he replies.

“Tell me,” Elizabeth says, “did you ever have any luck with the hinges?” It seems that, having observed the bare minimum of courtesy, she is content to be quite familiar with him.

And this informality, Will notices, has not gone undetected by the others: Gillette and Groves exchange a glance. He gives Elizabeth a flicker of a smile. “Unfortunately not,” he says. “But I think, given all the other measures in place, and of course the protection of our fine Navy”—he inclines his head in James's general direction—“there is very little to fear.”

“Naturally,” Elizabeth murmurs. “The captain was just telling me about the patrols he is leading.”

Gillette cuts in with a tone of barely-disguised derision. “Yet even the patrols cannot stop everything,” he says. “Isn't that so, Captain?”

They all turn to James. Even Will cannot resist looking; he knows that his reply to such a remark from someone of a lower station would probably be harsh. But James keeps his voice even, his words measured. “Indeed,” he says. “The Navy is not infallible. It would be folly to presume otherwise. That is why we work together,” he says, “Mr. Turner and I—and all the rest of us—to protect Port Royal as best we can.” His mouth quirks in a half-smile. “In that sense, one might say that his profession—as with that of the cooper, the tailor, and the sailmaker—is the most important in the colony.” And he glances at Elizabeth, and away again.

Even over the thundering of his heart at the familiar words, Will does not miss the flush, stronger now than before, that colors James's cheeks, nor Elizabeth's soft laugh. But she does not appear to be mocking James's words or their implications about Will. Gillette, on the other hand, has curled his lip. “What say you, Mr. Turner?” he demands. “Are you a key part of our protection?”

Because Will is already gazing at James, he sees James's eyes flash to him, a warning plain in his gaze. Will looks at Gillette. “I should hope so, sir,” he says mildly. “I make swords.”

As Elizabeth visibly suppresses a smile, Gillette plows on. “But do you believe that the cooper and the tailor play roles as valuable as yours?”

“We—we all do our jobs, sir,” Will says, faltering somewhat under the unexpected attack.

“Mr. Turner is right,” says Groves abruptly, gazing downward, his face impassive. “Perhaps we ought to recall what our duties are, and simply perform them to the best of our abilities.”

Across their little circle, Will meets Elizabeth's eyes, and he can see that she does not understand this layered exchange any more than he does.

Gillette scowls. “Even when—”

“Even then,” Groves interrupts, and glances at James.

As if he's been waiting for this, James nods. “Even when your captain drags you on a wild goose-chase through the rain,” he says, “and then out to sea. A man who does nothing else but his duty has done well.” Then he flushes again, as if embarrassed, and smiles. Will wonders whether the others can see how forced it is.

From there, the conversation moves to an easier topic: the recent storm, two weeks past now, and the damage it caused, which is still being repaired. Will tries to keep his eyes away from James, without much success. James, on the other hand, ignores Will as thoroughly as the governor did before, only paying him any mind when politeness and their discussion demand it. He holds his body with tension, though he does a convincing impression of ease, and whenever he must speak, his mouth is turned down at the corners.

Plainly, he would prefer not to be here, and Will wonders why he doesn't find some excuse to leave, if only for a few minutes. He has done as much before—he has even stolen away to meet Will, more than once, has danced with him to music meant for other ears. It strikes Will that this is precisely the sort of party where he might do such a thing again, and Will is already here: so much the better. And though Will remembers that their anonymity to each other is all that will save them among these people, he cannot help feeling a pang each time James glances at him, a little to the side, his gaze cool, never quite meeting his eyes.

The next evening, completely without warning, James knocks on the smithy door. When Will opens it there is a moment, hanging between them, in which James pauses on the threshold—a hesitation, barely a heartbeat long, but it makes Will think he was right to be uneasy. “I didn't know you were coming,” he says, stepping aside as James comes in.

“I know,” James says, looking weary and worn in a loose shirt and coat, quite different from the polished cut of his uniform the night before. After Will has shut the door and bolted it again, he takes a breath, pulls his shoulders back, and continues, “I felt—I feel—I owe you an apology. For breaking my promise twice.”

This is what Will has been waiting for, he knows, but still the honest words spill out: “I didn't even see what you wrote until the night you returned,” he admits. “So it was really only one time.”

James purses his lips. “I don't believe—”

“But I was awake,” Will says. “That night. I heard you come in and—and leave.” This is more than he meant to say, and perhaps because of his own surprise it comes out harsher than he would like. He wants answers, but he does not want to hurt James.

“Why didn't you say anything?” James asks after a moment.

“Why did you go?” Will counters. “I wanted to see you.”

James's back is straight, and he twists his hands uncomfortably. “You were sleeping. I didn't think I should wake you.”

“I always want to see you, no matter the hour.” Will can hardly keep the indignation from his tone—this has always been the same between them, never needing to be said aloud. He stares at James, trying to understand. The breath catches in his throat. “Did you not want to see me?”

“No,” James says at once, “no, of course I did.” He has been looking away, but now he gazes at Will, the color high in his cheeks. “I thought—you so rarely are allowed to sleep the night through,” he says, “and I simply thought you might appreciate the chance to do so.”

The expression in his eyes is frightful. In the face of it, Will has no choice but to relent, and he knows it would be unfair to argue further in any case. “That's kind,” he sighs. He does not know why he is so upset still, only that his throat is constricted, his fingers almost numb. “Very kind,” he says, aware of how true it is. He looks at James, who is still looking back, and smiles. “I simply missed you, I suppose.”

“I know,” James replies, and reaches out a hand.

Will takes it, stepping forward, drawing closer. “I'm glad you returned,” he says.

“I can never stay away for long,” James murmurs. They are inches apart, their breath mingling. In one swift motion he closes the remaining distance between them and kisses Will as if he is starving, as if he drowning and Will is his last breath of air. Will responds in kind, pressing closer, pulling James to him, and then James gasps and pulls away, suddenly rigid.

“What?” Will demands. “What's wrong?” He looks automatically to the door, a spike of icy fear chilling him instantly, but it is still firmly bolted. He turns back to James. “What—?” Then he sees the paleness of James's face, the way he is twisting in Will's arms. “You're hurt,” he says, and the words are stones in his stomach.

James shrugs, but the gesture is tense and awkward, ginger on one side. “It's not very bad,” he says.

“Where is it?” Will asks, though he can see now that he is looking: through the material of James's shirt, the bandages are whiter than the rest. His hand hovers over the spot, uncertain. “What happened?”

“On patrol,” James says heavily, some of his color coming back, “we were chasing rumors of the _Mourning Star_ —she’s been sighted near Preacher's Cave and we thought to catch her truant of a captain. But instead,” he continues, “we found signs of a battle, and an excellently laid trap, most likely meant for quite a different victim.” James grimaces. “Yet here I am.”

“Thank God,” Will murmurs, still with his fingers inches away from the bandaged area, as if James might break.

James lets out a short sigh. “Truly,” he says, “I’m all right. Look.” He pulls up his shirt to show bruises that extend beyond the binding, mottled and ugly, nearly along the whole length of his side.

Will stares incredulously. “All right?” he repeats.

“It’s nothing more than a few cracked ribs,” James tells him, “and a cut that—well—”

“Well what?”

“It’s _not_ infected,” James insists. “It’s a little deeper than the surgeon would have liked, but he says I’ll live.”

“Well, as long as you’ll live,” Will says dryly, but James does not smile. On the contrary, he looks away, his brow furrowed. Will looks back at the bruising, feeling his eyes prickle hotly. He knows this is foolish—James would not lie about this, proud as he is, so he must truly be in little danger—but with the continued, widening gulf between them, he aches as if the wound pains him as well. It is even in the right place, throbbing in his chest with a soreness that grows keener the longer James refuses to meet his eyes. Will reaches out and ever so faintly brushes his fingers over the bandages. The soft fabric catches on his callouses, and then he is ghosting over the tender, discolored area, barely even touching.

James flinches nonetheless, and Will snatches his hand back, appalled. “I’m sorry,” he says. To his horror his voice comes out choked. He swallows. “I didn’t mean to—”

James shakes his head, and though he gives a tight smile, he still does not meet Will’s gaze. “Your hands are rough,” he says, “that’s all.”

Will takes a breath that does not shake. “Does it hurt much?” he asks. “Perhaps you should—go back to the barracks, come again some other night.”

As if caught by surprise, James inhales sharply, his eyes finally snapping to Will’s. “No,” he says. “I only just arrived.”

“But you must be tired,” Will says.

“I am,” James admits, “and perhaps I ought to leave, but—” And rather than explain, he reaches out to Will, who is still close, and pulls him even nearer.

His hands are warm on Will’s shoulder, against the skin of his throat and jaw. “But what?” Will asks.

James shakes his head.

“Are you sure it isn’t serious?” Will asks softly.

“Will.” It sounds as if James means to continue, but for a long moment he says nothing more and simply gazes at Will. His eyes are wide and filled with something thunderous. The heartbeat stretches on and Will has the sense, suddenly, that this instant will stay with him long after it has passed. “Leave it,” James says, his voice rough, and leans in again. He kisses Will slowly, hesitantly, his touch so light that he is hardly there at all. Will tastes salt in his own throat and raises his own hand to James’s, both of their fingers trembling minutely. And for all the restraint in their embrace, it seems to Will that there is a wild desperation just below the surface, as of waves straining to join the rushing of the sea.

In the morning, though the sun has not yet risen and the sky is still deep and dark behind its sprinkling of stars, but just as the air begins to shift towards warmth again, Will opens his eyes, suddenly and completely awake. The room is dim and the candle has gone out. Beside him in the bed is James, asleep, his face relaxed and looking in that moment, with the night in a sheen over his skin, like a figure carved from marble.

Will is caught by the sight, almost a mirage, so peaceful and distant does it seem. He wonders at the way James’s eyelashes cast fine shadows on his cheekbones when the moonlight is at the perfect angle—the way his eyelids flutter in dreaming, the slight upturn to his mouth, not quite a smile but rather the chance of one. He knows it has been a long time since he has seen James this way, without the tightness to his jaw that only allows a smile when he lets it—he has nearly forgotten that this is something James’s face can do. And Will remembers that it was one of the first things he loved about James: the way the outside world seemed to fall away when they were together so that nothing could trouble them. Like standing at the prow of a ship, Will thinks, on a day with no wind. How much has passed since then—how much they have both changed.

Then, as he watches, James’s mouth tenses, his brow furrows infinitesimally, and his eyes open and meet Will’s. “What is it?” he whispers. They are so close together that he hardly needs to make a sound.

It takes Will a moment to answer. The change on James’s face shakes him to the core, and though James doesn’t look upset, it’s startling to see such rigidity where only a moment before there was calm. “Are you all right?” Will asks.

“What?” James blinks quizzically. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not in pain?” Will presses.

“No,” James says, “I swear.”

He smiles, but Will is not reassured. “Then what’s wrong?”

Rather than deny it, James holds his gaze for a moment, then closes his eyes again. It only lasts for a second, but it strikes a chord of fear deep in Will that only increases when James lifts himself on one elbow to look at the window. “I should go,” he says.

“It’s not yet light.”

James swallows visibly and sits up, moving gingerly but with a firm decisiveness. “It will be soon,” he says.

And Will cannot argue with that. He sits as well, hands James his boot when he is ready, brushes his fingers over James’s when he takes it. Because he can’t bear to watch the rest, he rises and goes to the window, but there is nothing to see in the shadowy town, and the sea is covered in darkness.

A hand comes to rest on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” James murmurs.

“Don’t be,” Will says. “You’ll simply have to come back soon.” He turns around and finds James’s eyes filled with a reflection of the starry sky. Beneath that, there is an openness as desolate as the horizon, made for growing lost upon—

“I will,” James says, and is it Will’s imagination, or is his voice a breath away from breaking? “I promise. I’ll come in five days’ time.” His expression twists and he pauses; for the bare space of a heartbeat, his breath catches. “Is that too late?”

Will folds James to him, though he hardly expects to be able to, so great is the tumult within him. With their chests pressed together he can feel James’s heart pounding between them. “It’s fine,” he sighs, his hands in James’s hair.

James turns his head, his lips against the skin of Will’s throat. He kisses Will there—or perhaps he whispers something too quiet to hear. Then he pulls back, his face more impassive than before, as if hidden behind a wall. “I’ll count the hours, then,” he says.

The endless pull between staying and going smacks too much of all the times James has left for the sea, and though he has just promised to return, Will thinks that he has never understood so well the words his mother used to tell him: it is hell to love a sailor. He gazes at James and knows that the risk they share will only ever grow. Yet there is love here, and its sweetness makes him brave. “Go,” Will says, a smile finding his lips that is not forced at all.

But the five days pass, and so does the night, and James does not appear. Will watches the dawn break over the waves and feels disappointed, but not, in truth, surprised. If he could not see its sails from his window he would think that the _Interceptor_ had set sail again without a word of warning. It would not, he reflects, be the first time. So he resumes his work as usual and waits for a visit, and the days begin to tick by once more. Will dislikes the anticipation, having to bide his time, unable to take matters into his own hands and demand an answer—but he has no plausible cause to visit the barracks, and though he could go at night, he always stops at the thought that perhaps it is suspicion that keeps James away. Could someone have learned their secret? When he thinks of that possibility, Will cannot bring himself to risk it: there would be no use in trying to mend the rift between them if in doing so he ends it all.

And then he looks up from his work to see Francis in the doorway, somewhat hesitant. “What is it?” Will asks, coming forward, though he thinks he has a fair idea already.

Francis gives an awkward little bow, as if not sure whether or not it's appropriate, and holds out an envelope. “From Captain Norrington, sir.”

“Payment?” Will asks as he takes it.

“He didn't say,” Francis says, then hastily adds, “sir.”

There's markedly less animosity in this interaction than in all their previous encounters—and Will realizes that it probably has to do with the night of the storm. Perhaps Francis feels embarrassed for falling asleep on the floor within five minutes. Perhaps he's simply grateful. Regardless, any amusement or gratification Will might feel at the fact is overshadowed by the strangeness of Francis's words. He takes the letter to the table and breaks the seal.

_Wait for me tonight. I swear I will come._

Will snorts, though he isn't particularly amused. The words sound apologetic enough, but he cannot shake the feeling that this is just one empty promise more, as good as broken. Abruptly he is sickened with himself for this distrust—though he knows it has been earned—and wonders, as he has done for weeks now, how they have come to be so far apart.

He realizes that Francis is watching him, and pulls himself together. “Did the captain want a reply?” When Francis nods, he takes a breath. “Well,” he says, “it’s—all in order.” He nods, giving Francis permission to go, and sinks into his chair, his head in his hands, his thoughts and heart the farthest from orderly that they have ever been.

The feeling of foreboding stays with Will throughout the rest of the day, far longer, he thinks, than is warranted. It is not just that he doubts James will come: it is the worry that if he does, he will bear some sort of awful news. He isn't sure why he feels such a strong sense of dread, but his stomach turns when he thinks of the evening, and his unease is a rock in his chest.

The sun sets and the moon rises without any sign of James. This has never been unusual; Will works on his accounts, waiting. He is too anxious tonight to worry about falling asleep at such a tedious task. Still, as the hours drag on and James still does not appear, Will cannot concentrate. He switches to taking an inventory of his tools, polishing and oiling those that need it, but at last he simply sits, watching the door.

And then James does appear, when the night is turning towards dawn. He walks inside and halts just over the threshold. He doesn't appear to be surprised to see Will waiting for him, but there is a moment's slump to his shoulders that seems to speak of weariness.

Will breaks the silence first. “I nearly thought you wouldn't come.”

James smiles half of a mirthless smile, as if he knows that the _nearly_ is nothing more than a kindness. “I nearly didn’t.”

“Why?” Will asks.

“You know.” James chews on one lip. “I was—”

“Busy,” Will finishes, “yes.” He waits to see if there will be a better explanation, but none comes. The stillness becomes too much to bear and he rises, shuffles into order the papers he has left in disarray on the table. Then he stops. “James,” he says, feeling a heaviness in his lungs, “what's wrong?” He prays for honesty; he prays for an end to all of this waiting.

But James sighs. “This job,” he says, “it is... demanding. There is constant danger at the tip of a sword, both on land and at sea, as well as storms, and I am away for seasons at a time.”

“We've discussed this before,” Will reminds him.

“Because it's true.” James is staring at him, Will can tell, but he does not look up from the parchment in his hands. After a moment, James continues. “And—and because of that danger, it... cannot be for nothing that I am the youngest man to reach the rank of captain in my generation.” He doesn't say the words with any sort of smugness, and they fall flat and listless.

Will nods. “You said you were the youngest in the history of the navy.” He looks to the window. The faint gray of the sky is growing paler.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees James lift his chin, stand straighter. He doesn’t deny it. “In such a job,” he says, “in such a post, there are—obligations. No,” he says, and passes his hand over his eyes briefly; “that's not the right word. Expectations.” He sighs. “Things that must be done, that are looked for in a man.”

When James pauses once again, Will forgets his papers and looks at him, curious. At his gaze, James looks away, frowning. He takes a deep, slow breath. “Miss Swann,” he says at last, “is a fine woman.” He glances at Will and then away, so quickly that he almost seems afraid. “One has only to listen to her for five minutes to know that one could just as easily speak with her for an hour… as I’m sure you know”—James's gaze flickers to Will again—“you were young friends, were you not? And she has beauty to match her wit.” He has been speaking faster and faster. Now he takes another short breath, and Will sees him twist his hands together, white-knuckled. “Any man would be proud to have her as a wife.”

There passes a second in which James's words do not register. Then they hit, with a strange momentum that reminds Will of the roll of seawater up a beach after the breaking of a wave. He cannot think of anything to say.

“I mean to court her,” James says, rather unnecessarily. It sounds as if he is softening a blow.

Will finds his voice. “You would be well-matched,” he replies.

James shakes his head, one hand at his brow again. “You misunderstand me.” He pauses a moment, sets his jaw. “I intend to marry her. And—these meetings—” He does not look at Will. “They will not be able to continue.”

Again, the sensation of the swash, of rushing water in his ears. Will looks down and sees that he is still holding the parchment, that he is in fact crumpling the pages in his clenched hands. He forces himself to lay the sheets on the table, and comes around to the front of it so there is nothing between himself and James. “I wouldn’t mind,” he says carefully, his heart pounding desperately in his throat. “It doesn’t—offend me, to love a married man. And surely—surely you would not be the first man to—”

“But I am.” James’s words cut like no blade ever has; as if he knows it, his voice grows even quieter, though it was not loud before. “I am the first in my position, as I said, and I—I cannot lose it. I cannot let it hang in the balance for the sake of—”

“For the sake of what?” Will asks. He wonders, faintly, if James will be able to say it. “James—” His throat closes. He reaches for James’s hand, as if that will change anything.

At his touch, James stiffens, and Will feels a tremor in the hand he is holding. “I will marry Miss Swann,” James says. His voice is flat and terse and he barely moves his lips. He is looking down at their joined hands. “You and I can no longer see each other.” And he pulls his hand away.

Will feels the loss like his own hand has been cut off. “Once,” he whispers, “you said—” _For this, I would risk anything… I would sail to the very end of the earth._ The words turn to ash in his mouth as the truth of it comes home to him. The truth: that James has weighed his love against his career, and found the former wanting. And the worst of it is that it is not truly a surprise—did Will not always know that they were pulled in two different directions?

Wildly, wretchedly, Will considers taking James’s hand again, pulling him back, pleading with him. Anything to keep him from walking out the door and severing this fragile thing that has held them together through the years. But even as he thinks of reaching out, of opening his mouth, he knows it would be pointless. Worse, it would be wrong. Even if James were to agree to continue seeing him after his marriage, what future would they have but a half-life even deeper in the shadows? What would they have to become, to survive that? And he sees now that though he could, and would, love James through it all, there would be no joy in it: not for him, not for James, and certainly not for Elizabeth.

Taking his silence for what it is, James steps back. “I have said,” he says, “what I came to say.” He turns toward the door.

Will would like to say that it is against his will that his mouth opens, but it is not. His throat is salt-seared as the words rasp out. “You can’t leave it like this.”

James stops and twists as if to look back, though his face is still hidden. “Like what?” he asks, his voice low.

Will searches for the words. What? What does he want? He longs for James to come back to him, to hold him, to tell him he is sorry, but he knows he cannot have it. “Just tell me,” he says, “does this mean so little to you that you will not even look me in the eye?”

James looks at him then, and Will sees that he does care, that something in him is breaking, even as something within Will is wrenching, hard. When he speaks, his voice betrays nothing. “I cannot give up my future, Will. I can do—most anything, but that.” He shakes his head and swallows. “And the other thing—if we were to persist, after marriage—it would not be right. It would not be fair.”

“Fair?” Will echoes. He wishes he could keep his words strong, present an impenetrable front as James is doing, but the air is gone from his lungs. There are a great many things, he thinks, that are not fair.

“Will.” Only because they have shared so much—bled and wept and laughed in each other’s arms—can Will hear how much it costs James to say his name, see how it pains him to stay another moment. He treasures it with a guilty yearning: the faintest hint of roughness, a tightness to his lips. It was not nothing. It was real. “This hurts me as well,” James says. A stranger would think it was a lie.

Will is not a stranger. _Then undo it,_ he wants to say, but stops. He has begged once before for James to stay; he will not do it again. His heart pounds within him and every vein thrums. “I know it does.”

Perhaps looking back makes it harder for James to look away again. He turns fully, facing Will once more, his fingers tapping a quick tempo against his thigh. His deep breath catches a little. “I am leaving tomorrow,” he says, then glances at the window, where the dawn is racing toward them. “Or—today, I suppose. Another patrol.”

Will opens his mouth, but he finds himself, finally, speechless. There seems to be nothing left to say. Even the heat of his anger is gone: in its place is a slow and inexorable ebbing, a falling tide. James still pulls at him like an anchor, standing there, but now there can be nothing between them, and as much as Will does want—still wants—will perhaps always want—to fall towards James and never let him go, he holds himself in check. The silence thickens, turns bitter. “Then go,” he says. He does not know, in saying it, who he is trying to save.

For a single instant, a stricken expression flickers across James’s face, brought quickly to heel behind that hated, hateful mask. James turns again. He walks toward the door. Will watches him go—hoping, with every fiber of his being, that James will come back, and yet also wishing for nothing more than to be rid of him, and with him, this shuddering and twisting in his heart, as of a ship sinking to great depth. Finally, on the threshold, James does look around once more. The air is rank with the smell of gunpowder, an acrid perfume; screaming gulls mark the rising sun. James pauses, his hand on the doorframe, as if he will speak—and then he nods, and turns, and goes, leaving the space suddenly empty against the pink Caribbean dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to everyone who's still reading! I'll save the sentimental note (and treat) for the next installment - fear not! There will be an epilogue!


	13. Epilogue: Touché

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Touché: touched, affected; less commonly, stricken, smitten_
> 
> Called out by a fencer who is hit, in order to acknowledge the hit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (deep breath) Hey guys! Can you believe it's been exactly a year since I first started this catastrophe? [Audrey](archiveofourown.org/users/Palebluedot/pseuds/Palebluedot) and I came up with the general idea a few days before that, but it wasn't until 3/24/16 that I actually committed to an entire year of insanity and overanalysis. Thank you to everyone who has read this far - your kudos and comments mean the world to me! I hope it's been as much fun for you as it has for me.
> 
> Specifically, I want to thank Audrey, who humored me just long enough for us both to realize that we were in over our heads, and who has stood by me through thick and thin, screaming her head off; and [Ally,](weaponsofpeace.tumblr.com) whose responses always brighten my day and without whom this very small club would be even smaller! I couldn't have done it without you guys, honest.
> 
> And now, without further ado - the self-indulgent epilogue :)

**1735**

 

“What’s wrong with you?” demands Gillette, eyes narrowed. “Did someone hit you over the head?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” James replies, making an effort to blink and clear his head. He turns away and braces his hands on the back of the chair. This will not do.

Behind him, Gillette is clearly unsatisfied. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Well, thinks James, smiling faintly and hating it, he’s certainly seen _something._ The image dances behind his eyes: ruddy cheeks, bright brown eyes, a laughing mouth. Limbs that move like the sea itself. It’s not the first time he’s seen William Turner—of course not—but it strikes him all at once that the boy they fished out of the waves has grown up into something else entirely.

“I’m fine,” James lies. His voice is passably nonchalant. He wipes the smile from his face and turns back to Gillette, walks out of the room past him and back to his own quarters. He realizes that he is smiling again. No, this won’t do at all.

 

———

 

The way they all look at him—he’s sure they know. But how could they? The deck was dark, everything was soaked; no one could see more than a yard in front of his face. But Groves, James reminds himself, is always watching.

He fingers the handle of the borrowed pistol tucked in his belt, looking out across the docks, feeling the wind cool the back of his neck in the hot sun. It is too soon to check on the order for new equipment. He’ll have to—

“Lieutenant.”

James turns, face-to-face with Admiral Gillan. He bows. “Sir.”

Gillan frowns at him in that particular disapproving way. “Is it true,” he says, “that you managed to lose all of your equipment on your last voyage?”

Horribly, James feels his cheeks grow hot. “Sir,” he says again. “The storm hit as we were in the process of coming about to the island where the _Poseidon’s Pride_ made port—in preparation, several things were above deck, and—”

“None of the other men were so unfortunate.”

James ducks his head. “None of the other men were hit by such a large wave.”

He hears the Admiral blow a sharp breath out through his nose, like the fighting bulls he once saw back in London. “Be that as it may,” Gillan continues, emphasizing each word, “I find it hard to believe that you lost every last piece to a _wave.”_

That’s the problem—James could kick himself—it isn’t the least bit believable. He chews on the inside of his cheek and scrambles for a response—“Not every piece, sir. I kept my sword.” He winces, appalled at his own flippancy.

Gillan fixes him with a glare, but doesn’t comment on the cheek. “I have heard from Lieutenant Gillette that you threw your things over the side of the _Dauntless.”_

So it was Gillette: the information distracts James, though he supposes he ought to have known. Groves is scrupulously honest, but without certain proof it could only have been Gillette, who is petty and jealous. “With all due respect,” he says, “I do not take my duties so lightly as to do such a thing.”

“Hm.” Gillan nods slowly, then says, “My quarters, at five of the clock this afternoon. Don’t be late.”

James watches him walk away, his heart racing in his chest, but not at the lie. No, he doesn’t regret it—though it will get him punished, though it will be humiliating. He remembers the way Will’s voice softened when he said he was sorry, the look in his eyes when he bid James farewell. He can find no remorse in him for that.

 

**1736**

 

Did he ever truly live until this moment? Was everything that came before a dream, a mirage, a passing fancy? It makes James laugh when he thinks of it: a life before he knew, exquisitely, the feel of Will Turner’s lips on his own.

 

———

 

Will in the morning—Will in the noonday sun—Will in the evening, his skin painted purple with the twilight. None of it compares to the sight of Will under the midnight sky, the stars above reflected in his eyes, which are wide and earnest and painfully sweet. “And what of your family?” he asks, inflecting the question so that it’s polite, so that James can do nothing but answer.

“My family,” James repeats, giving the words weight. He settles more firmly into the little hollow, mindful that they are not far from the beach, keeping his head below the line of the bushes. “My family is—as many families are, I suppose. Difficult to accept, impossible to understand, but rather easy to love.” He grins. “And positively simple to grow weary of.”

Will snorts. “You said you had a painting of your mother in your chambers?”

James nods. “I do.” He doesn’t particularly want to tell Will the story, because he knows it will be drawn-out and cause nothing but pity. For a moment he imagines it, and finds that he is nearly choked with longing for Will to comfort him, but he pushes that down and shrugs. “My father wished me to take it to the New World lest I forget them—hardly likely.”

A moment of silence makes him look at Will, and James sees that his gaze is shrewd. “I thought you said that you were the one who commissioned it.”

It startles a laugh out of James, though being caught in a lie isn’t funny. “That’s right,” he admits, and feels himself flush. He opens his mouth, wanting to excuse himself or apologize, but nothing comes out.

Will lays a hand on his arm. “If I didn’t understand secrets,” he says softly, “we’d be in a great deal of trouble.” He leans over and kisses James on the cheek.

 

———

 

“I love you,” Will says, and it strikes a chord in James. “Did you know?”

James smiles against his skin. “I have had my suspicions,” he murmurs.

Fingers comb through his hair. “It’s true. I’m absolutely besotted.” Will’s voice sounds wondering, soft with amazement. “What have you done to me?”

“Excellent question,” James says. He kisses Will on the mouth, on his jaw, in the hollow of his throat. He lingers there, tracing feather-light designs across his shoulders and listening to the quickening of his breath. “I wonder what it could be.”

Will laughs, quiet, a rolling wave. “You’re making quite a clear point.”

James catches his hand when Will tries to pull him away. “I’m not finished.” He raises himself on his elbows and kisses Will’s closed eyelids, one after the other, as gently as he can. He kisses his temples, he kisses his brow, he turns his lips to anointing oil and crowns Will the king of his heart. Finally he returns to Will’s mouth and kisses him till he is trembling.

Will gazes up at him, breathless. “Are you done yet?”

“Have you figured it out yet?” James counters.

“I think so.” Will pulls him back down; there is no place where they aren’t touching. “I think you’re beautiful. I think you’re kind, and strong, and smarter than you let anyone see. I think it would be impossible not to fall in love with you.”

“Funny,” James sighs, his whole face smiling, everything in him singing. “I was going to say the same thing about you.”

 

**1737**

 

If he could paint, if he were an artist and not an officer, James knows he would paint nothing but Will. Sleeping, it’s clear as anything that the planes of his face are made to be drawn, are in fact already living art. His eyes even more so—but James is glad they are closed.

Will has the habit of making little remarks, doing small things, that open floodgates in James. He thinks of it now: the way he turned this evening and told James, quite simply, that in all his life he could not remember a person he had ever been happier to be with. Exaggeration, surely—and yet James thinks also of his wide, free smile, the brush of his eyelashes over his cheeks, the cadence of his laugh when something takes him by surprise, and his heart swells within his chest until he can hardly breathe with the pain of it.

God help him, he has no choice. He has sacrificed so much to reach this point—endured it all. He cannot see it go to waste. Yet he knows it will make him fracture and split in two, along the same hairline cracks he felt the beginnings of when Will kissed him in a darkened smithy, and which deepened, later, when James kissed him back. The knowledge, coupled with the sight of Will dreaming so peacefully scant inches away, is impossible to bear. “Will,” James whispers, “wake up. It’s nearly dawn.”

At the touch of James’s fingers on his cheek, Will opens his eyes, already smiling.

 

———

 

James wonders, is this the last time they’ll kiss? The last time he’ll blush when Will looks at him the way he always does, swift and laughing? The last time Will’s hands will press against his chest, comb through his hair, trace his lips with feather-soft roughness?

“You’re worried,” Will says, raising himself on one elbow to look at James, fingers still brushing his cheek.

It’s not a question; there’s no point in denying it. “There’s a lot of pressure,” James says.

Will smiles. “Isn’t there always?” He ducks his head and lays a quick kiss on James’s shoulder. “If you need to go, I understand—”

“No.” James shakes his head, panic warring with pride in his head, common sense nowhere to be found. “We see each other so rarely as it is, I don’t want to leave before I’ve even arrived.” He hears a small whisper of doubt, betrayal, and pushes it down.

There’s something hard in Will’s eyes. “Stay as long as you like,” he says, and his voice is quiet, barely more than a breath, but it too has a steely undertone. “You know I won’t make you go.” He moves his hand so it rests on James’s jaw, turns his head, kisses him slowly on the mouth. “What do you say? Shall we make a day of it?”

It’s like the tide, James thinks, the way Will drags at him and sweeps him off his feet. The way James lets him. He kisses Will back, the possibility that it’s the last time again an itch in his mind—kisses him as if he were drowning, as if he could drown out the thought. “I love you,” he whispers. His voice almost catches on the words but he makes himself say them. Who knows if he’ll say them again?

Against his lips, Will smiles. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he murmurs, and he sounds so happy, so very content.

It makes James’s gut twist. He takes a small breath and presses one last kiss, and says, “I do have to go.”

Will goes still beneath him, just for a moment. Then he sits up. “All right.”

A part of James, a part he despises, is angry that there’s nothing more. He wants to be pleaded with, begged to stay. He wants to see Will fight for him, not let him go like ballast. But there’s no reason to expect that, not when he’s such a coward he can’t even give a name to this thing he’s doing. And they may yet see each other again. “I’m sorry,” he tries. It tastes foul.

“I don’t mind,” Will says, without a lie in his voice but with it written all over his face. “I want you to do well.” That, at least, is the truth.

James wants to reach for him, wants to hold him, wants to break and tell him every thought he’s ever had about leaving, wants to weep and fall down and beg for forgiveness. James wants to stay. But he can’t, so he only nods and gets dressed and brushes his hand across Will’s skin to feel the warmth of him.

It’s all the good-bye he allows himself, because already he’s lingered too long to come away easily. And he has to; sooner or later he’ll have to come away for good, so he’s peeling himself back an inch at a time. He draws his hand down the long line of Will’s arm, over the swell of his muscles, finds his hand and holds it. Lets it go.

Outside the smithy, he rejoins the world, but as he stands peering in the early-morning gloom, James thinks he sees a face at the upstairs window the way he’s often thought he sees sails on an empty horizon—smiling, perhaps, or waving once. But he has to blink to see better, and the face is gone, a scrap of cloud in the harsh salt sky.

 

**1738**

 

James has cried for love before. He has felt so filled up with it that his skin aches, that he feels the slightest touch would bruise him. He has wept tears that have stained his clothing salty and wished it were an ocean, wide enough to sail across or drown in.

He closes the smithy door. He does not weep or make a sound. He walks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like some music to go with this fic, I made one very long playlist and split it up into 3 parts, and you can listen to it on Spotify or 8tracks by going to [this link](http://blanketed-in-stars.tumblr.com/post/158779660009/rash-actions-a-willjames-playlist-will-turner-is) (there's also a track list).
> 
> Also feel free to check out all the art that I and others have made for Rash Actions [here.](http://blanketed-in-stars.tumblr.com/tagged/rash-actions)
> 
> Finally, please let me know what you thought of this fic either by saying so below or dropping me a line on my tumblr ([blanketed-in-stars](http://blanketed-in-stars.tumblr.com))! I'd love to hear from you!
> 
> Comments are love!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [ere the sun rises](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6621724) by [Palebluedot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Palebluedot/pseuds/Palebluedot)




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